To Gabriella and Shaun

and

to Joyce Craig

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Dedication

Map

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

It was impossible for Ezok to ignore the body of his superior. He had learned to pretend not to see many things in the service of Berellia’s king, but this was too much. Not when the man who had given you orders for the past year was stripped naked, gagged and tied to a column in the ornate throne room. Try as he might to look at the gorgeous tapestries or the immaculate marble flooring, his eyes kept stealing back to the bizarre scene.

‘Don’t be so shy, Ezok!’ the king boomed from the throne. ‘See how I reward failure!’

Reluctantly, Ezok stared at the former Berellian ambassador to Norstalos. The man’s eyes bulged above the thick gag, pleading for help. Ezok had no intention of aiding a man he despised but, even if he had, a chilling figure stepped out from behind one of the throne room’s decorative pillars and into the dim light cast by a score of lanterns to show the foolishness of that idea. It was full daylight outside but the massive windows were covered with thick metal shutters. Not just that; the door had been bolted behind Ezok as he walked in and the galleries were emptied of the usual flock of courtiers, ladies and guards. If Ezok’s informant was right, the King’s last guest was the reason for all this but Ezok dared not look for him, instead keeping his eyes on the man who could end his life in an instant, should the king order it. His name was Cezar but he was more formally known as the King’s Champion. He looked unremarkable but he was not there for show. He was there to kill.

Cezar’s face was hidden by dark cloth, only his eyes were visible and these seemed to bore into Ezok. The new ambassador knew he was the very height of Berellian fashion, with his golden-coloured tunic, dark green pants and matching cloak set off by his tall, muscular frame. His long dark hair was held back by a silver band, while his handsome face was marked by the classic Berellian blue eyes and high cheekbones. He knew he looked good. He had spent enough time in front of the mirror after receiving the summons to the palace. But he doubted Cezar was admiring his taste in clothes. He turned away and bowed deeply to his king.

King Markuz was a powerful figure. He was dressed, as always, in a glittering sleeveless mail jerkin that had been polished until it shone like silver. Underneath he wore a long-sleeved tunic of gold, matching trews and long, black leather cavalry boots. He looked impressive, because appearances were everything in Berellia. But his face showed the strain of his position. Ezok could see the lines of worry and fear that had appeared on his monarch’s face since Berellia had lost the Ralloran Wars, a bitter defeat that no amount of boastful proclamations could wipe away.

‘Congratulations, Ezok! Your brilliant work in Norstalos has seen you appointed to the position of ambassador, following the sad death of your predecessor,’ Markuz announced.

Ezok bowed again, ignoring the sounds as his predecessor struggled futilely.

‘Tell me of Norstalos,’ the king’s last guest hissed as he stalked out from the far shadows.

The sight of him set Ezok’s heart racing with fear and excitement.

The figure was covered in a full-length rust-red robe, with a deep cowl that completely obscured his face. His hands, which only just protruded from the sleeves of the robe, were gloved. The woollen robe was belted with a strange, pale-coloured fabric and marked with a large black rune on the chest. If legend was true, the belt was of human skin, while the rune was the figure’s secret name, given to him by the Dark God himself. This was a cleric of the Dark God Zorva, known as a Fearpriest. Ezok had heard the stories—how they offered their God blood sacrifices and, in return, gained unbelievable power: from being able to affect the earth, air, fire and water around them to even being able to kill with a touch. Reputedly they could defeat the strongest mage and could not be hurt by normal means. He did not intend to test these tales.

Ezok composed himself and cleared his throat. ‘Norstalos is a rich, arrogant country to our north, which thinks itself above all others, blessed by dragons. As with Berellia, kingship falls to the eldest male relative of the last ruler. But, unique to Norstalos, princes may only take the throne if they can also draw the Dragon Sword, given to one of their kings centuries ago by the dragons themselves. This is a magical test of a man’s character. If they are unable to draw the Sword when they come to manhood, they are seen as unworthy and will not be allowed to take the throne, let alone continue as Crown Prince. The next eldest male relative will then get the chance to draw the Sword, until one is successful. That one will be allowed to become King. Not only is it the final test of kingship but the Norstalines believe they have been at peace for so long because of the Sword. They tell each other it has magical powers to keep them safe. That they have not been attacked while a king holds the Dragon Sword has convinced them that it is true.’

‘Tell Brother Onzalez what you have discovered,’ Markuz ordered.

Ezok permitted himself a small smile. ‘It is a lie. True, the Dragon Sword will not allow itself to be drawn by a man it sees as unworthy. But the rest is all a story made up by King Riel, who was first given the Sword by the dragons. Strangely, Riel decided having a magical Sword was not enough, he also had to invent the legend of a Sword that would keep the country at peace. The gullible Norstalines believed him and spent the past six hundred years convincing each other of this falsehood and venerating the Sword. In reality, it is the size of the Norstaline army—paid for by the country’s ample gold mines—that has kept it free of the wars that have racked the rest of the continent.’

Brother Onzalez clapped his hands together three times, slowly.

‘Well done, Ezok, for discovering this lie, which has given Berellia pause in the past. But how does it help now?’ he asked coldly.

Ezok felt sweat start out across his body.

‘Norstalos is one step away from chaos,’ he said hurriedly. ‘The wonderful system, that they thought so clever, has failed them. They have a Queen, for the first time in their history. None of the male nobles could draw the Dragon Sword, so none were allowed to take the throne. They do not know what to do. A woman cannot draw the Dragon Sword…’

‘Why?’ Onzalez demanded.

Ezok gulped. ‘I do not know. The Norstalines think it is because the dragons decreed only men are worthy to rule…’

‘Sounds sensible,’ Markuz rumbled.

Ezok bowed his head, unwilling to argue.

‘So the daughter of the last king is allowed to rule but must find a noble to marry. As soon as her son can draw the Sword, she must relinquish the throne to him. Meanwhile, she must look for a Champion who can wield the Dragon Sword on her behalf. This is to preserve the people’s belief that the Dragon Sword keeps them at peace. Without a Champion at her side, the people will never accept her. But she has been unable to find a Champion, the people do not support her and her cousin, Duke Gello, the commander of the army, is scheming to take the throne that should have been his, had he been able to draw the Dragon Sword.’

‘Excellent!’ Onzalez congratulated him. ‘You will make a much better ambassador than your deceased predecessor.’

Ezok ignored the frightened breathing of the man tied to the pillar behind him.

‘I have seen the future; it was a gift from the Great God,’ Onzalez declared. ‘Gello will seize the throne. This will set off a chain of events that will see him forced to turn to us for help. We need a man we can trust in Norstalos to bring him under our sway, a man I can guide until we see the two countries fighting together for one goal: converting every land by sword and fire! But there must be no mistakes. Your predecessor tried to subvert one of Gello’s war captains and failed. This is his punishment.’

Ezok turned, expecting to see Cezar plunge a blade into the bound man. Instead, Onzalez walked forward, peeling off his right glove and laying his hand on the man’s chest. A muffled scream escaped from behind the gag, before the former ambassador shuddered once, then was still.

Onzalez walked towards Ezok. ‘That fate awaits those who defy us. But those who serve us can enjoy their rewards now, not after a lifetime of bowing and scraping, as priests of that weakling Aroaril preach. Show me your foot!’

Ezok nearly jumped as Onzalez held out his right hand, that had ended the former ambassador’s life moments ago.

‘How did…what do you mean?’ Ezok spluttered. Few knew of his deformity, the club foot that he tried desperately to disguise with special shoes. It had seen him ridiculed since birth, forced him to develop his cunning to survive in a society where weakness was despised. But he dared now refuse the Fearpriest. Slowly he pulled off his left shoe, to reveal his shame.

Onzalez reached out and seized Ezok’s foot. Ezok did not have time to even cry out before his foot burned like fire, then like ice. He looked down to see a perfect foot, a match to the right. It had haunted him his whole life and now it was healed, when the best bone-setters and years of prayer to Aroaril had failed.

‘Will you help us, Ezok?’ Onzalex asked simply.

Ezok looked up, eyes shining. ‘My only question is, will Cezar be helping me?’

Markuz stirred into life on the throne. ‘You will have guards but will operate on your own to bring Duke Gello over to our side. Cezar has the task of restoring Berellia’s honour. I am going to kill the Butchers of Bellic. Captains Macord, Snithe, Rowran, Oscarl and Martil. Especially Captain Martil. Berellian pride cries out that he must be destroyed!’

Ezok bowed his head. The Butchers of Bellic were the five Rallorans who commanded the army that had utterly destroyed a Berellian city in the final act of the vicious Ralloran Wars. All Berellian children were taught to hate them.

‘Enough! We must first discuss Ezok’s conversion!’ The Fearpriest’s harsh voice cut through the throne room. ‘What say you, Ezok? Do you join us, or die?’

Ezok smiled. That was not a choice. But as he stood on two whole feet for the first time in his life, he was eager to see what else service to Zorva could bring. ‘I am ready,’ he said simply.

The Fearpriest hissed triumphantly. ‘We have the sacrifice ready in the next room. Afterwards, you shall head north to take up your new post. There is a long road ahead for us but at its end every country shall worship Zorva and we shall be rewarded beyond all others! And it all begins in Norstalos!’

1

Try as he might, Martil could not remember what animal he was supposed to be singing about. Admittedly, it had been years since he had heard the song, way back in the days when he had been able to look at himself in the mirror. He and his childhood friends, Borin and Tomon, had gone out drinking with a group of other new army recruits. One of them, a tall blond fellow who had died screaming a week later, had known this hilarious song, all about an unusual animal and its amazing sexual exploits. The whole inn had been singing it by the end, roaring with laughter.

‘You’d think a song like that would stick in your mind, eh?’ Martil told his horse. It wasn’t much of a conversationalist but it was a muscular, fast chestnut beast that had cost him five gold pieces. He knew he had paid too much but he had just wanted to get out of the country. Besides, money meant little to Martil. After looting battlefields he had amassed a reasonable fortune—topped up by a long-overdue reward from his less-than-grateful King. He suspected he had only been given that to keep him quiet and speed his way out of the country so he would no longer be an embarrassment. So his saddlebags bulged with gold—as much gold as most men earned in twenty years. But it gave him little pleasure. When he forced himself to think about it, there was not much he was happy about.

The horse, a former cavalry mount dismissed from the King’s service like many of Rallora’s veterans, was a gelding, so Martil had christened it Tomon, a joke on his old friend, who had been irresistible to the ladies. He felt sure Tomon would have appreciated it, had he still been alive to hear it. Tomon had always liked his sense of humour. Borin had not been so keen, saying there were some things you should not try to laugh at. But even he had admitted it was one of the things that had kept them going in the darkest of times. Sadly, it did not stop the dreams, and the other memories from haunting him now…

‘So, Tomon, how did that song go again?’ Martil nudged his horse.

The horse did not reply, just plodded along the road, or what passed for a road in this quiet part of eastern Norstalos. Martil focused his attention upon it. He found it was easier to think about mundane things, such as roads and half-forgotten drinking songs, than the reasons why he was riding alone through a foreign country when he should have been a hero in his homeland. Once he would have been unable to walk down a street without men shaking his hand, children pretending to be him and women inviting him back to their chambers. But while half of them still wanted to cheer him, the rest would rather spit hatred. He shuddered as he remembered the names they had flung at him, along with a barrage of rotten fruit. Desperately he searched for something to take his mind off those memories. It was summer here in Norstalos and the sun was making the sweat trickle down his back when he was not beneath the shade of the trees. It was also giving him a thirst, so he took a swig of wine. He had asked for the finest Norstaline red, he remembered.

‘Tastes like goat’s piss,’ he announced to Tomon.

Still, it was doing a reasonable job of helping him forget. For instance, he couldn’t remember the name of the bloody animal that ravished everything from a cat to a dragon over sixteen hilarious verses. Now, if the wine would just finish the job and make him forget everything else, he would call it a fine bargain. Forget things like the sight of a desperate Borin trying in vain to stuff his guts back inside himself after he had been caught by those two Berellian axemen. Or the expression on Tomon’s face as he choked to death after a Berellian crossbow bolt went through his throat. And how he himself had joined four other Ralloran war captains and ordered the destruction of the Berellian city of Bellic.

‘Time to change the subject,’ Martil told Tomon, and squirted some more wine into his mouth.

It was foul stuff, and if it was the finest Norstalos could offer, then he decided he would have to stick to ale after this.

‘More like horse’s piss,’ he told Tomon and was struck by a sudden thought. Was the animal in the song a horse?

‘No, that’s verse ten,’ he remembered, and gave Tomon a pat in sympathy. He looked around again, wondering if he might spot some woodland beast that would jog his memory. He had to admit the chances of it were slim. This was a rich land, a soft land, where wagons full of produce and herds of animals regularly travelled along the road from the lush farmlands in the east of the country to reach the towns and cities in the west and south. Under a warm summer sun, the land seemed to slumber. Any animals were trying to stay cool. There was little activity on the road. He was following this road because the quickest route to the coast would have taken him through Berellia. Seeing as most of the country wanted to burn him alive for what he had done at Bellic, he thought he should take the longer route, through Aviland and the east of Norstalos, before heading across to where he could sit under the sun and watch the waves lap the beach.

‘You wouldn’t travel this road for the view,’ Martil told Tomon. ‘Nothing but bloody trees.’

They were good for shade, but little else. He looked at the woods with a professional eye. You could barely hide a regiment of men in it. The trees were often sparse, the bushes too small. Then he remembered his mind should not be working like that, and tried to get back to the subject at hand.

‘No chance of spotting a wolf or bear around here,’ he reflected, then wondered if the mystery animal was a wolf. ‘No, the wolf’s in verse twelve,’ he muttered, and drank some more wine.

Maybe he should stay off it. It might help his memory of the song return. And he could find an inn this afternoon and catch up on the drinking then, pour enough down his throat to stop the dreams. Although it wasn’t the dreams so much as the voices, the ones pleading not to be killed, or cursing his soul as they died, as well as those screaming at him as he walked through his country’s streets.

He shuddered; he could not keep thinking like this.

‘I’ll sing the song,’ he announced, shoving the stopper back into the wineskin.

He cleared his throat and tried to remember the first verse. It wasn’t coming to him, so he decided to sing the bits he did remember, and let the horse complain if the verses were out of order.

‘The…something…discovered a bear, asleep in winter’s chill, he slipped up close behind it then went at it with all his will.’

Martil did not have much of a singing voice but what he lacked in tune, he made up for in volume. Hidden birds took off screeching and Tomon flicked his ears irritably but Martil ignored them.

The song seemed to lack something. The greatest humour came from the knowledge such an unlikely creature was the star, but Martil felt the subtlety was probably lost on Tomon and any wildlife that was still within earshot.

‘Ohhh, the bear she woke up angry, she didn’t like the shock, she wanted to be sleeping, not humped by a something with a giant— whooah!’

Tomon had tossed his head angrily as Martil built up volume in preparation for the end of the line and nearly unseated Martil. But he refused to let that stop him and essayed another verse.

‘The something discovered a lion, sleeping in the rain, he sneaked up close behind it then grabbed it by the mane. Ohhh, the lion gave a roar, it knew that this was wrong, but there was no escaping the something’s enormous…’

‘Good day to you!’ a voice interrupted him cheerfully.

Martil, who had his eyes closed to better remember the words, opened them in surprise. It took a moment to register that a burly man was standing on the road in front of him. He was heavily bearded and dressed in fine clothes that had seen better days. His green jerkin had unidentifiable stains down the front and his leather trousers and boots were scarred and patched. By his side was a single-bladed axe of the type favoured by woodsmen the world over. But he had a broad smile that was somehow infectious and Martil found himself smiling back.

Martil hauled at Tomon’s reins and stopped perhaps five paces from the smiling man. As soon as he had done so, Martil cursed himself. Friendly woodsmen did not go hailing single travellers and offering them a guided tour of the most interesting trees in the forest. He should have kicked Tomon into a gallop. Still, he was on horseback and it was only one man, so he took a swig of wine and wondered if this would liven up his day a little.

‘Nice song. Didn’t recognise the tune. What was the “something”?’ the man asked. Martil had expected a gruff sort of voice but the man spoke well, albeit with a strong Norstaline accent.

‘Can’t bloody remember. Zorva’s balls, I wish I could. Only thing that’s clear is it has a staff a wizard would be proud of,’ Martil admitted.

‘Zorva’s balls?’ The woodsman looked amused. ‘That’s an expression I haven’t heard before. Most people believe just mentioning the name of the Dark God is bad enough, without insulting his balls.’

Martil shrugged. ‘It’s an old habit of mine. If Zorva worried about it, he would have claimed me years ago.’ He took another mouthful of wine. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have a song to sing.’

The woodsman shifted position and took a subtle step further into the road. It looked innocent but it also helped block any move to ride past him. Martil registered that this stretch of road was lined with bushes that were both thick and close to the edge, making it difficult to ride around. It made the hair on the back of his neck itch and he had to force himself to listen to the woodsman’s words.

‘Well, I hope you’re not planning to take that act into the taverns,’ he was saying. ‘We may only be country folk but we do like our songs to have a tune.’

‘Singing was never my talent,’ Martil admitted. ‘But is it the custom in this part of Norstalos to waylay a man and criticise his singing ability?’

The man chuckled. ‘No, but I have a young daughter and she’ll only be asking me what the last line of each verse means.’

Martil nodded wisely. ‘There are things the young should not hear,’ he agreed.

Unbidden, an image of screaming children watching their parents being hacked down by vengeful soldiers sprang into his mind. He shook his head, as if he could shake that away. ‘I promise to keep my voice down,’ he said hastily, then took another mouthful of wine.

‘Thirsty work, singing?’ the man said meaningfully, gesturing at the wineskin.

Martil waved it at him. ‘You want some? Tell me your name.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I like to know who I am drinking with.’

The man hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Edil,’ he replied.

The way he said it indicated he expected Martil to know something about him but it meant nothing. Perhaps the man was a known sheep-shagger. Martil did not care. He threw the wineskin to Edil, who caught it deftly and took a mouthful.

‘Not bad—but I expected a rich man like yourself to be drinking something better,’ the woodsman announced. Martil found there was something about the man that kept him talking. He had a way about him, some sort of roguish charm that seemed to belie the rough clothes and unwashed look. I am a better man than this, it seemed to say, I have just fallen on hard times.

Martil held out his hand for his wineskin. ‘I’m no rich man. All I have is on this horse. No wife, no children, no land, no friends, no home,’ he sighed, feeling the weight of those words.

Edil snorted. ‘Well, it looks rich enough to me. Good horse, two swords—large saddlebags. Any of those would make me a rich man. All I have is children.’

‘Your daughter?’

Edil laughed. ‘What good is a little girl? No, I have three sons, and they are valuable to me.’ He whistled and Martil turned to see three young men step out of the bushes to take up position—one behind him and one to either side. Like their father they had beards in various stages of growth and wore clothes that had seen better days—and quite possibly had been made for other men, judging by the ill-fitting way they hung. It had obviously been months since they had last been cleaned as well. One held a stout stick whose tip had been hardened in a fire, the other two had crude axes in their hands.

Martil may have been part-drunk but he was not blind. He turned back to Edil and laughed.

‘You have a strange sense of humour, stranger. Have you remembered the animal for your song?’ Edil asked suspiciously.

Martil rubbed his face. ‘I wish I had. No, I can’t believe I just sat here and let you box me into this ridiculously simple trap.’

Edil nodded. ‘Fate is strange, is it not? Now, if you would kindly get down and let us have everything you own, you can be on your way. Or, you can go to meet Zorva, who may not be impressed that you’ve been insulting his balls.’

Martil half-bowed at the man’s jest. Most bandits would not talk to potential victims like this. Even in this situation, he could appreciate the man’s charm. It almost had the hypnotic effect a snake uses to bewitch a rodent. He guessed Edil had used it to ensnare people for years. But he was not an ordinary person. ‘I have a better suggestion. You move out of my way and I will ride on, and we can both chalk this up to experience. I’ll even let you keep the rest of the wine and throw in a gold piece for some better clothes.’

Edil roared with laughter. ‘I take what I said back. You have the act to impress in the taverns. I might let you keep that gold piece—if you promise not to sing!’ His sons all joined in the laughter; the eldest, a black-bearded young giant on Martil’s left, was particularly loud.

Martil sighed and leaned forward a little. This was no longer funny. It was time to impress on this fool how much danger he was in. ‘Listen to me. I have spent the past sixteen years killing men on battlefields across the south. Now, you and I have drunk wine together, and you have children. Move on, and you may yet sire more.’ The last thing he wanted was to fight. Not because of the wine he had drunk, although it sat sourly in his belly. Drunk or sober, sick or healthy, there had never been a man to stand against him with a blade. And he was sick of killing.

‘Stranger, you are no longer amusing. Get down and give me all your money. I do not want to spend the time burying you,’ Edil snapped.

Martil tried again, hoping to reach Edil with the force of his argument. It was all that would save the man’s life, and the lives of his sons.

‘Try to stop me and I will kill you. I have enough deaths on my hands. I have no wish to add four more.’ Not only was he unable to find any humour in this but the effects of the wine were gone. Slowly he eased his feet from the stirrups as he looked into Edil’s eyes, trying to show the man just how much he did not want to kill him.

But Edil was not looking at Martil’s eyes. He was looking at the horse, and the bulging saddlebags it carried.

‘I don’t care what you came here for, or what you think you did down south. You’re drunk and alone, and we are four. Get off your horse if you want to live.’

‘Don’t make me do this,’ Martil warned urgently. ‘Five gold pieces to let me pass!’

Edil’s face tightened. ‘Take him! Take all his gold!’

Martil reacted instantly. He jumped to his right, away from Blackbeard, as he recognised he was the only real threat. He landed lightly, only a couple of paces from the son to his right, a sandy-haired youth with a straggly, wispy beard and bulging eyes. He was the one with the club, and he rushed at Martil with the thick lump of wood raised high above his head. Martil’s hands went to the twin swords at his sides and he had them unsheathed as the youth aimed a roundhouse blow calculated to cave in his skull—but Martil had ducked underneath, and his left-hand sword lanced out, sinking deep into the youth’s belly and ripping up into his lungs. The youth dropped his club and screamed in agony, hands clutching towards the blade that had impaled him. But Martil had already finished with him. A twist of the wrist and a thrust of the arm and the dying youth was propelled off Martil’s sword and into the path of the young man who had been blocking the road behind. This one, who had no beard at all but dark stubble across his chin, stumbled past his dying brother and swung his axe from over his right shoulder, down in a wide arc. Martil kept advancing but pivoted to the left, getting inside the arc of the axe, which missed him and sank into the ground instead. Then it was a simple matter to use his right-hand sword in a reverse cut to open the young man’s throat with a vicious slash. Blood sprayed high and Martil kept spinning, so he was facing the last son, the black-bearded giant with the massive shoulders.

He was roaring in rage at the sight of his two dead brothers, but it had taken him precious time to get past Tomon and Martil was waiting for him as he charged in, axe held high. He aimed a huge blow, which would have split Martil open from neck to hip if it had landed. But Martil had been fighting axemen for years and simply spun sideways. His swords flicked out almost as an afterthought, first one then the second opening the young giant’s belly like a purse as he slipped past the axe. The young man blundered on for a few more paces, before literally falling over his own intestines as they spilled out uncontrollably. His feet slipped out from beneath him and his head slammed into a hardened rut of earth as he collapsed into blood and gore.

Martil swung around again, this time to face a bewildered Edil, who had started forward but had been stunned into immobility by the slaughter of his sons.

‘My, my boys,’ he gasped, mouth sagging open to show blackened and missing teeth.

Martil glanced down at the three twitching bodies and felt an enormous rage building.

‘I warned you. I told you but you wouldn’t listen!’ he snarled.

Edil just stared at him. ‘But the wine, and the singing! No-one could behave like that and then be able to do this,’ he babbled, seemingly oblivious to the fact Martil was advancing towards him. ‘How could I let you ride by like that? You would have fed our family for months!’

Martil ignored what he was saying. ‘Look what you made me do! I swore I was finished with this, I gave you fair warning but still you attacked me!’ The ground seemed to be tilting and Martil could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He knew that feeling. That was how he had felt before the assault on Bellic and it had only been washed away in a tide of violence and blood.

‘Now what am I going to do? You killed my sons!’ Edil moaned. The charm, the verbal jousting and the roguish smile were all gone.

‘Do you know how much blood is on my hands?’ Martil glanced down at himself. ‘And not just on my hands, but on my face and clothes as well? Do you have any idea of how sick I am of the smell of blood? How I’ve tried to get it out of my mind?’

‘W—what are you saying?’ Edil realised Martil, his two swords dripping blood, was only a step away. But he made no move to raise the axe he held loosely by his side.

‘Blood has a stink. Like you have a stink. Like your whole filthy family. I did you a favour by killing them. Now if you are a man, you’d try to avenge them. You were brave enough before, when you thought I was at your mercy. Come on!’ Martil spat into Edil’s face, and the man recoiled as if he had been struck. ‘You could stand there and give the orders, now finish what you started. Try and do what those stupid, stinking goats you called your sons couldn’t. Or are you as gutless as that one back there?’

Martil hurled the words at Edil, wanting the man to attack him, enjoying seeing the shock replaced by anger, and then by fear. Part of him could still recognise that he was goading the man until he had no choice but to attack and be killed, but he was just too angry to want to do anything but take it out on the man in front of him.

‘Yes, I’m going to kill you, too. Slaughter you like the pig you are. You couldn’t live like a man, come and see if you can die like one, you bastard!’

But Edil still made no move to attack; he was obviously unable to follow what had happened, unable to comprehend how a drunken fool had massacred his family. Martil felt his anger bubble over at the way the man just stood there, unwilling to finish what he had started.

‘Come on! I’ll slice off your face if you won’t fight!’ he hissed, then spat again into Edil’s face.

This seemed to break the spell the robber was under. He screamed a wordless challenge and swung his axe at Martil; wild, crazy swings that only cut the air, then Martil stepped inside the axe’s arc and swung both swords, putting all his anger, his frustration and his hatred into the double blow. His swords struck Edil’s neck from opposite sides and the man’s head spun off and hit the road, rolling into the bushes. The body stayed upright for a moment, pumping out blood, then collapsed onto itself.

Martil turned, to see if there was any threat from the sons. There was none. Their dead eyes seemed to stare up at him, accusing him, their faces frozen forever in a rictus of shock and agony. He looked from one to another but there was no life, no movement, just the hideous wounds he had ripped into them and the stink of blood and opened bowels. He spun back and slammed his swords deep into the ground, then he bent over and vomited, a seemingly endless stream of wine and the bread and cheese that he had eaten that morning.

He hurried over to where Tomon still waited patiently, ripping off his stained tunic and trousers as he went. He grabbed a waterskin and splashed it over his hands, using the clean parts of his clothing to scrub the blood off his face and hands. Then he rinsed out his mouth and spat.

He stopped and stared at his wineskin, lying next to Edil’s body, started walking towards it but decided the red wine would look and taste too much like blood to him. He did not know what to do next, whether to just ride on or bury the bodies. He leaned against Tomon and buried his face in his hands. It had happened again. He had lost control and killed unnecessarily. He need not have killed the sons; he could have just wounded them. But once he drew his swords, all thought, all reason, was lost. As for Edil’s death…It was closer to murder.

‘He would have tried to avenge his sons,’ Martil told Tomon, but he could tell even the horse was not convinced. ‘He was given the choice to leave me alone!’ But not at the end, when he might have taken it, a voice inside him said. Telling himself that the man was a robber, who had obviously killed before, that by wiping out his family he had in fact saved the lives of other travellers was scant comfort. It did not change the truth.

Martil shook with self-loathing. ‘He’s dead because I wanted to kill him. Because I wanted him to pay for making me angry,’ he told Tomon. ‘Because I lost control again. Like Bellic.’

It was one of the reasons he had left the army, left behind his homeland of Rallora, even though he was a hero down there, at least to some of the people.

‘One of the reasons? It was the only reason, you stupid bastard,’ he told himself. Everything else was only part of the truth.

Bellic. The one act of anger and revenge that had turned him from hero to villain. The town that would haunt him for the rest of his life. The years of war had robbed him of something, the ability to control himself—to control his temper. When he got angry, people died. Even here, in another country. And he did not know how to stop it.

I cannot take much more of this before I go completely mad, he thought…he rubbed his face with a shaking hand. It will be different from now on. I shall change, he swore silently.

Slowly he dressed in fresh clothes. But when he sat down to pull on his boots, a loud groan made him leap to his feet, heart pounding. He started towards his swords, before he realised the noises were coming from the black-bearded son he had gutted. He was trying to pull himself out of his own entrails and turn himself onto his back.

Martil used his old tunic to wipe the handle of his swords, before retrieving them and watching the youth’s struggles. When he was sure it was not a trick, he walked carefully over. A man could not fight well with half his insides around his knees, but in sixteen years of bloody warfare Martil had seen too many of his friends, and later the men he commanded, die in unusual ways to take chances now. Martil knew what he had to do. The young robber could linger for a turn of the hourglass or more, in agony. He stepped forward and raised his sword to end the man’s suffering.

‘Wait!’

Martil checked his stroke and looked down into the brutal young face. Pain and blood had etched lines into the areas that were not covered by the thick, tangled beard, while the eyes showed cunning, and a touch of desperation.

‘I have a half-sister. Her name is Karia. She’s only six. Da remarried after Ma died having Leten over there.’ He jerked his head to indicate his brother with the cut throat.

‘Do you want me to take her and her mother somewhere?’ Martil found himself asking. The guilt over the way he had lost control came bubbling up and he found himself eager, more than eager, to make amends. Eager, also, to be away from this place. He could grab the woman and child, take them to a village and give them money. That could make up for this, he told himself.

Blackbeard shook his head and then bit his lip at the effort it cost him.

‘No. Her mother died giving birth to her. We left Karia at our camp, about two hundred paces west.’

‘Then what do you want me to do?’

‘Take her across the border into Tetril, to the village of Thest. We have kin there. My uncle Danir. He’ll take care of her.’

Martil had only a sketchy idea of the border around here but knew it was a ride of a week or more. His guilt was strong and fresh, but it could only go so far.

‘I’ll take her to the next village and then pay for her to travel there,’ he offered.

‘I beg you! She must go to Danir!’ The giant paused for breath and some of the desperation in his voice was replaced by pleading. ‘He will reward you when you arrive and you cannot leave her to die here! She’s the only remaining part of our family.’

Martil wanted to refuse. Anyone could see taking a small girl to a village days away was going to be a nightmare. Let alone a small girl whose father and brothers you had just slaughtered.

But his guilt was choking him. He could not add the death of a small child to that. The blood on his hands was literally too fresh. Besides, this was peaceful Norstalos. What could happen? And she was only six! How much trouble could a small girl be?

‘All right,’ he said heavily.

‘Swear to Aroaril!’ the giant gasped, his face growing paler.

Martil hesitated. An oath to a God was never made lightly. You never knew when they might decide to hold you to it.

‘Swear!’

Martil’s guilt got the better of his common sense. Even though the young robber was dying, he wanted to show the man he was not just another mad sword-killer. ‘I swear by Aroaril to take Karia to her uncle Danir, in the village of Thest,’ he intoned.

The giant relaxed, and lay back struggling for air.

‘Now there is one last thing you must do for me,’ he grunted.

Martil nodded and closed his eyes, so he did not see the flare of triumph on the young man’s face before his sword struck home. Grimly he wrapped his hands in the bloodstained clothing and dragged the bodies of Edil and his sons off the road, grimacing at the stench of open bowels and blood. Then he washed his hands and his mouth out once more before walking Tomon up the road. That way, when he returned with the girl, she would not have to see the bodies of her father and brothers.

It was only when he was ready to start walking into the trees to get her that he started to realise the true enormity of the promise he had just made. Why would a small girl want to go anywhere with a strange man? What would he tell her about her family? How would she travel, what would she eat, where would she sleep?

He almost jumped onto Tomon and rode away at that point. There had to be a village nearby where he could report the attack and the missing girl. Then he paused. What if the girl wandered off and died in the forest? Whatever the sins of her family, she had not tried to rob and kill him. He was finding it hard enough to look in the mirror as it was. Could his conscience stand another child’s death?

‘And you’re talking to yourself more and more,’ he muttered.

‘Aye, but it’s only a problem when you start answering yourself,’ he decided.

Still he hesitated, but the thought of the girl waiting forlornly for her family to return, then finding them dead before wandering off to die herself clinched it. He strode off the road before he could talk himself out of it, then crashed through the woods, trying to count the paces carefully, and trying not to think too deeply about what he was doing. He moved slowly, keeping his eyes open for the camp, which he guessed would be in some sort of clearing.

As he walked he listened for the sound of a young girl. He had no idea what that might be, but he presumed it would stand out from the forest noise. Not that there was much of that. His progress seemed to have scared away any creatures. Then, about where his counting told him it would be, there was a camp. He walked closer, but could not see anyone. He spat in disgust at the smell and the filth. To a man who had spent years making rough camps, this one looked particularly pathetic. The fire was out while a few blackened pots and pans were stacked messily near it. Packs and blankets lay on the ground, waiting for owners who would never return. The family’s possessions seemed pitifully small, which was probably why they had been unwilling to let him pass.

‘Hello the camp!’ he called in his friendliest voice. There was no answer.

Martil was not paying attention to where he was going, so he stumbled over a tree root and nearly fell into the remains of the fire. Flies buzzed hungrily around the pots, which held only some crusted, blackened scraps. He looked around carefully for a small girl, perhaps hiding under a tree or in the bushes, but could see nothing. He even peered at the family’s crude latrine pit, dug far too near the camp for his liking, before coming to the happy conclusion that there was nobody here.

‘Maybe she already ran away,’ he pondered, testing the theory and liking it. After all, he had tried. It wasn’t his fault she had already run off. He could ride to the next village, report the attack, and leave it to the local militia to sort things out. Their job was to keep the peace. She would probably walk out to the road, find the next traveller and be taken to her uncle that way.

Feeling as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, he turned with a broad smile and started walking back towards the road. But he had only taken two paces when he nearly fell over a small figure that appeared in front of him.

‘Who’re you? What’re you doing in my camp?’ she demanded. ‘My Da and brothers’ll be back soon.’

Martil had to flail his arms for balance and only then had a good look at the little girl. It was not an encouraging sight. She was wearing what appeared to be one of her brothers’ old tunics, which stretched down to her calves and was belted with an old piece of rope. The sleeves were far too long and seemed to have been hacked off with a dagger. She wore no shoes and the bits of her that stuck out from the crude tunic were filthy. Martil could smell her from where he stood, a combination of woodsmoke, old food and leaf mould. Her hair was tangled and appeared to have a small stick stuck into it. Yet there was something about her. Edil had not been a handsome man. But his wife must have been a beauty. The little girl had a snub nose, smudged with dirt, while her hair was probably blonde under all that muck. What struck him most was her eyes, big and brown and staring directly at him.

They seemed to capture his attention, although he could not mistake the fact she was also holding a rusty frying pan as if it were a weapon.

‘You must be Karia,’ Martil said, then wondered how there could be any other little girls wandering around the forest.

‘Who are you? Da’ll be back soon!’ she warned.

He tried to marshal his thoughts. As a war captain, he had had to deal with plenty of town councils and merchants, usually either trying to get them to surrender or hand over food for his men. He had not enjoyed it but he had some experience in getting people to do things they did not want to do. He decided to try these techniques on her.

‘I’m—I’m a friend of your father’s—he asked me to take you to your uncle Danir,’ Martil said brightly.

Karia dropped the frypan, narrowly missing Martil’s feet.

‘So Da and the boys are dead then,’ she stated flatly.

Martil blinked. ‘I never said that!’ he protested.

He half-expected the little girl to start crying but she just gazed at him coolly and spoke in a calm, clear voice.

‘Da said that’s what would happen to me if he and the boys were killed. He often said it. He told me I’d have to go and see my uncle Danir.’

Martil tried to pull himself together.

‘Yes. Well. That’s right. Sensible man, your Da. So, if you want to collect your things, we can make a start,’ Martil gestured back towards the packs and blankets.

But the girl made no move.

‘Are you a militia shit-slinger?’ She asked it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Martil gaped. He had not had much to do with children but he had some idea they weren’t supposed to talk like this.

‘Zorva’s balls!’ he gasped. Even as he blurted out the words he realised what he had said. ‘I mean, no, I’m just a traveller, trying to pass through the forest,’ he added hastily, hoping she had not noticed the phrase he had used.

‘You said a square word,’ she said accusingly.

The conversation was getting away from Martil. ‘A what?’

‘A square word. A rude word. Da says them all the time. But I know you mustn’t,’ she informed him loftily.

‘Square? Oh, a swearword!’ Martil finally caught up. ‘But you used one first!’

She just stared at him. He felt he should break the silence. ‘But that’s all right. Do you want to go now?’

She made no move. ‘So Da and the boys stopped you. Did you kill them or did they kill some of your friends first?’

Martil spluttered. He had half a mind to point behind her, shout ‘bear!’ and, when she turned, start running for his horse. Humour was struggling to help him in the face of this strange little girl. What could he say to her? ‘Yes, but they tried to kill me first?’ How was that going to sound?

‘It’s all right if you did. I expect they tried to kill you,’ she said reassuringly, although it did not reassure Martil in the slightest.

‘You shouldn’t know about these things!’ Martil finally managed to protest.

She shrugged. ‘Da and the boys always talked about what they did,’ she explained, and Martil had an image of a family sitting down to dinner, discussing what a great day they had had, killing and robbing travellers.

‘I know you must have killed them, because they wouldn’t have told you about Uncle Danir and sent you to come and get me,’ she told him.

Martil gave up. ‘Yes, I killed them. I asked them to leave me alone but they attacked me and I had to fight. But I promised to take you to your uncle,’ he finished brightly, as if it made up for the rest.

Karia nodded, her face expressionless. Then she kicked him furiously in the shins and screamed at him. ‘I hate you!’ she shrieked and raced off towards the largest pack.

‘Zorva’s balls!’ he growled, then turned to see her rummaging furiously through the pack. ‘Getting your stuff together?’ he asked, more in hope than anything else.

Then she produced a long, rusty knife and rushed at him, jabbing it at his stomach.

That did it, his reactions took over.

Martil stepped forward and grabbed her wrist. He was shocked at how thin her arm was, and how easy it was to twist her wrist until she dropped the knife and tried to kick him again. He dodged that and shoved her backwards, prepared for her to spring back up at him. But she just lay there and started to cry.

Feeling embarrassed, and rather guilty, he picked up the knife and hurled it into the bushes.

‘Leave me alone!’ she wailed.

Martil reflected on how much he would have liked to do that.

‘I can’t do that. How can a little girl like you live out here in the forest, by yourself? Wouldn’t you be happier with your uncle Danir?’

‘I’m not a little girl! My name’s Karia!’ she shouted tearily.

‘Fine!’ Martil could feel his temper rising but after his explosion of hatred and anger back on the road, it was easier to keep calm. Besides, he reminded himself as he took a few deep breaths, this was just a little girl. ‘Right then, Karia, wouldn’t you be happier with your uncle?’ Martil tried to inject some warmth into his voice but he had no idea if it was working.

‘I don’t know. I’ve never met him.’

Not for the first time, Martil wondered why giving up was not in his nature.

‘You can’t stay here. I’ll take you to your uncle.’

Karia’s wails turned to sobs, the sobs to sniffles, then she looked up at him, tears streaking the grime on her face.

‘You’ll take me to my uncle? Just you? No militia?’

Martil thought her preoccupation with the militia was another sign Edil had taken a small girl into his confidence rather too much. It was the militia’s job to hunt down bandits such as Edil but if his daughter knew all about them—as well as their unsavoury nickname—what had he been telling her?

‘Yes, I’ll take you to your uncle. Just me,’ he promised, feeling as though she had just won some sort of victory, although he had no idea what that might be.

‘All right. Help me pack,’ she told him, and scrambled to her feet.

‘Which one is yours?’ Martil gestured at the packs.

‘None of them.’

‘So what will you be taking?’

‘What I want from Da and the boys. They won’t need any of it now they’re dead.’

Martil was trying to keep up with her sudden changes of mood.

‘You seem to know a lot about death for a young girl,’ he could not help but say.

‘We lived on a farm before this. Things were always dying, or Da and the boys were killing them. And when they brought stuff back, they’d always say the people who had them before didn’t need them, because they were dead now,’ she explained matter-of-factly.

‘Oh. Right.’ Martil was not sure if he found her explanation comforting, or horrifying.

Meanwhile, she emptied out the first pack, revealing dirty clothes and old tools. She put these aside and came up with a mirror and a brush. Both were made of wood, and neither looked to be in good condition, which was probably why they had not been sold.

Then she sorted through the clothes and came up with a large purple tunic, the brightest colour in the pack, although its cloth had been faded by both time and dirt.

‘Do you want me to carry those?’ Martil asked.

Without replying, she undid the rope and threw off the old tunic she was wearing, before reaching for the purple one.

Martil had time to register how thin she was, how her ribs showed clearly and how her legs were like sticks. At first he thought she was also covered in dirt, until he realised in horror that she was covered in bruises. Then he turned around as fast as he could.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded roughly.

‘Getting dressed,’ she replied, in a tone that indicated he must have all the intelligence of a particularly foolish sheep.

‘That’s not right! Go behind a tree!’

‘Why?’

‘It’s not decent! You don’t take your clothes off in front of strangers! Didn’t your Da teach you that?’

‘No. Why is it important?’

There was nothing but pure curiosity in her tone, which made Martil grind his teeth in frustration. Did he have to explain everything to her? He felt his control weakening.

‘We don’t have time for this! Now, I’m an adult, and you’re a child, so if I say something isn’t right, don’t question me!’ he snarled.

‘Don’t hit me!’

Martil turned, to see her wearing the tunic now, but cowering away from him. At that sight, his anger drained away, replaced by self-loathing.

‘If I didn’t hit you when you tried to stab me, why would I hit you now?’ he wanted to know, genuinely mystified.

‘Your voice. That’s the sort of thing Da used to say, right before he hit me.’

Martil remembered the bruises and shuddered. There was no way he was going to hurt her. It was time to prove he was a better man than the one who had killed her father and brothers.

‘I wouldn’t hit you,’ he said gently. ‘Now finish getting dressed and we’ll start on our way.’

Warily, she belted the rope around her waist, then tried to pull the long sleeves of the tunic back as far as she could. He helped her roll back the sleeves until her hands were actually visible.

‘Time to go,’ he suggested.

He let Karia go first, just in case she found another knife, and directed her through the trees until they reached Tomon, hobbled by the side of the road.

‘Is he yours?’ Karia asked as soon as she saw Tomon. ‘Can I pat him?’

It was the first real interest in something she had shown, and he was eager to encourage it. ‘Of course. He won’t bite.’

‘Can you lift me up so I can touch his mane?’ she asked.

Martil shrugged, then picked her up around the waist, so she could reach over and pat Tomon’s head. He was struck by how light she was.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Tomon. He’s named after an old friend of mine,’ Martil explained.

‘Is he dead? Did you kill him?’

Martil ground his teeth. ‘I did not kill him.’

‘But you are a murbeler.’

‘A what?’ Talking to her was like trying to catch a butterfly with your hands.

‘Da told me about them. Said if he was killed, it would either be militia or a murbeling maniac.’

‘Murbel…that would be a murdering maniac,’ Martil worked out.

‘That’s what I said. Now, can I feed your horse?’

Martil tried to make his brain follow the leaps in conversation. ‘Not now. He ate this morning, and will eat again this evening. We have to go if we’re going to get to the village of Chell before nightfall,’ he told her.

‘We’re going to Chell?’ she squeaked excitedly.

‘Yes, that’s what I said,’ he admitted, wondering if this was anything like murbeling.

‘Then I can see Father Nott!’ She clapped her hands together.

Martil had no idea who this was, although it was most likely the village priest. Why the daughter of a bandit would be excited about visiting the local priest of Aroaril, he had no idea. But if it got her on the horse and him away from here, she could visit the bloody Archbishop for all he cared.

‘Of course. And if you want to keep patting Tomon, you can sit in front of me and stroke his neck while we ride,’ Martil offered.

She thought that was a good idea, so he lifted her up into the saddle. It took a little while to sort out the reins and to make sure she did not fall off as she patted Tomon, but eventually he was able to urge Tomon into a brisk walk. Up close, she was particularly fragrant.

‘Who’s Father Nott?’ he asked, more to distract himself from her smell than anything else.

‘When my mother died, Father Nott took me in. I grew up with him, and only went to live with my Da about six months ago, at the last Feast of Aroaril.’

Martil felt his hopes rise a little.

‘He has a family, then, this Father Nott? His wife and kids would be pleased to see you again?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s very old. Older even than you.’

Martil sighed. It sounded as though her life had been stranger than his own.

‘At least there’s still your uncle,’ he offered.

‘I don’t want to see him. I’m going to stay with Father Nott!’

Good. The sooner I get rid of you, the better, Martil thought. And perhaps then I can get some peace.

But then he shook himself. This whole trip was about his new start, away from the fighting. The deaths today were regrettable, but they would be the last. He would make this ride with the girl his penance. Surely nothing else could go wrong.

2

The farm was nothing much, just a handful of fenced paddocks around a large stone farmhouse. It was half a day’s ride from the town and the nearest neighbours were several miles away. Inside, the man once known as War Captain Macord sat in his kitchen, a half-finished bottle of wine and a couple of tall candles on the table in front of him. A farm had been all he had dreamed of during the war. Now he did not dream, he just wished he had died before ever hearing about a Berellian city called Bellic.

Reluctantly he poured himself another glass of wine, but as he raised it to his lips, a knock on the door made him stop. Without thinking, his hand went to his belt, where a long dagger hung ready. His clothes were unwashed, his face unshaven, but the dagger was clean and sharp. Swiftly he crossed to the door, moving lightly on his feet, although the stomach protruding over his belt showed how long it had been since he had been in armour. He peered carefully through a side window. There was nothing outside, and he did not even think about opening the door. Instead, he turned and made a rush for his bedroom, where he kept a sword and armour handy. He burst through the door, ready to bar it behind him—only to see a figure in black standing beside his bed.

The man’s arms flicked forward and Macord just had time to see a pair of throwing knives fly out before they slammed into his chest.

‘King Markuz sends his greetings, Captain Macord,’ the killer said to the gasping man.

Cezar walked away from the farmhouse as the fire he had set started to lick tongues of flame out of its windows. He had doused the body in lamp oil and thought it likely the militia would never find the terrible wounds in the chest, or know that Berellia had reached out to take its revenge on one of the Butchers of Bellic—at least not until he had killed more of them.

Chell was a typical Norstaline village. It had one hard-baked dirt road running past about 100 small homes, mostly made of wood, but a handful made of stone and a few of mud brick. There was an inn, a church, the militia post and of course the market with its fenced yards. The huge dung heaps mouldering beside houses added little to its appeal, while the sounds of chickens and pigs provided a raucous welcome.

It was the same as a thousand other villages across the continent and was never going to make the list of places you must see before leaving Norstalos. But to Karia it was something special. Despite the past six months she had spent living rough in the woods or cowering on Edil’s farm, it was home, the only true home she had known.

Her memory was good—Father Nott had said he had never taught a child like her—so she could clearly remember what it had been like. Days of peace and calm, of lessons taught and questions answered, prayers in the cool of the dark church or in the quiet of the home; of being read stories in the evenings, receiving soft hugs and being tucked into her own bed with her own special dolly, and being kissed goodnight. People looking after her—not just Father Nott but the many women who helped out in the church. Other children to play with, and talk to. And best of all, there had always been plenty of food. Food brought in by the women of the village. Anything from stews and pies to tarts and cakes and glasses of fresh, creamy milk. Father Nott had been old, and often busy, but he had always smiled at her and was always ready to answer her many questions.

The past six months had been very different. Life on the farm had been hard, no fun, no lessons, little food but plenty of work. She had been ordered awake before dawn, to cook breakfast for her father and three half-brothers. After cooking, she had to feed the animals, fix buckets and work at any other task Edil thought about. Any animals she tried to befriend usually ended up on the dinner table and any questions were either ignored or received a kick or a blow in response. She was a clever girl and quickly worked out the best way to survive was to do what Edil or her brothers said and just keep quiet. That, and to remember only to cry at night, when they were asleep.

Her prayers to be allowed to go back to Father Nott went unanswered, although her prayer to leave the farm had been heard, after a fashion, when they had taken to the road. But even the farm was better than life as an outlaw. It had sounded good when she had first heard it. After a few months they would all be rich, and then they could move to a city and live like kings. In reality it was a muddy, wet, cold camp in the forest, hardly any food and even more kicks and blows.

So the deaths of her father and half-brothers had not left her devastated. She missed them not at all. She did not like the strange man who had walked into the camp and told her that her father and brothers were dead. He acted funny, and kept talking to himself. But if he would take her back to Father Nott, then she would forget he was obviously a murbeling maniac.

As always when she tried to think of something happy, she thought about Father Nott. Thoughts of him were all that had kept her going on the farm and in the forest. Of course, every time she had told Edil she wanted to go back to Father Nott, she had been hit for her trouble, until she finally stopped asking.

At least this Martil didn’t hit her, and his horse was nice. She had always liked horses best, because they would not be eaten on the farm. Still, she thought Martil should be punished for killing her Da and her half-brothers, although she had hated them as well. It was all rather confusing.

Asking questions was a habit she had made herself forget during her time with Edil but this ride was different. Knowing she was going back to Father Nott had her feeling excited for the first time in months. So excited that she could not help herself and had to start talking, despite months of Edil trying to hit that habit out of her. And when Martil did not stop her, she kept talking. In between eating, of course, because there was plenty of food and she had not eaten much for the past two days. And when she saw Chell, it was all she could do not to burst into tears. Soon she would be home again.

Martil had never been so pleased to see a backwater village like Chell. He had thought the little girl would ride in sullen silence. But one question led to another until he felt as though his ears were buzzing.

They had to stop every so often for food, then to let her go to the toilet, then for more food.

In an effort to distract her, and to keep his sanity, he tried to find out about her—and about Edil. He had heard many strange and sad stories but it was somehow different to hear it told like this, by a little girl who might have been discussing how she had spent the day playing with her dolls. She told him she had been raised by the local priest after her mother had died in childbirth. Edil had been too busy with the farm to look after a little girl. Or perhaps busy with his sideline of robbing people, for when she had returned to live with Edil six months ago, the farm was falling apart due to lack of care. Animals died, or were so scrawny that no buyer was willing to pay more than cost for them. Edil and his sons raided their neighbours’ flocks at night but someone had been lazy and not checked all the brand marks had been changed. When they tried to sell the new animals, the militia stepped in, and when they ran, the tax-gatherers took the farm. From what she said, Martil could tell she had been half-starved, beaten regularly and treated worse than a servant. Interspersed with the tale of how the farm failed were stories of the animals she had befriended, only to have them killed and eaten by her family. Before then, Martil had wondered how she could talk of her father and brothers being killed so easily, but after what she had seen on the farm, it was not a surprise. It was more of a surprise that she had not been driven crazy by what had happened.

But perhaps the answer to that lay with Father Nott, the priest who had raised her for most of her life. She could not wait to see him—and after an afternoon with her, neither could Martil.

Karia pointed out the church but Martil could have spotted it himself. It was one of the finer buildings in Chell, which admittedly was not a difficult thing to achieve. The militia post was in good condition, of course, but then there were always prisoners around to keep it tidy.

The church, however, was of dressed stone and wood. It was also impressively clean. The priest’s home was just behind it and Martil was pleasantly surprised to see it was just another village house. He had known priests who had insisted on having enormous homes, demanding it as part of the village’s duty to Aroaril.

He spurred Tomon over towards the church, where a hitching rail stood along the front of the building. There were few villagers about at this time of day; most would be still working in the fields—and the handful that saw him seemed to be reassured by the sight of both a small girl in the saddle with him and the fact he was riding towards the church. An armed man in this part of Norstalos would otherwise have excited plenty of comment and attracted the attention of the militia. But a man riding with his daughter, going to church, well, that was a horse of an entirely different colour. Martil waved at a couple of women and could not stop himself thinking that if he wanted to scout a village before attacking it, riding in with a small child was the perfect disguise.

He climbed down from Tomon and tied the reins to the hitching rail. He debated about removing his saddle and saddlebags, then decided that could wait. If Father Nott was willing to take Karia, he could be out of the village and riding hard for freedom that much faster. He lifted Karia down.

‘Will he be in the church?’ he wondered.

‘Not at this time. He’ll be at home or out visiting the sick. Don’t you know anything?’ Karia demanded.

‘Apparently not,’ Martil muttered, and let her lead him towards the priest’s house. ‘I just hope he’s as happy to see you as I’ll be to see the back of you.’ The city home of Duke Gello was more like a small castle, set on manicured grounds. With its tall towers crowned by a magnificent array of flags, it was impossible to miss. Even those who had lived all their lives in the city liked to stop and stare, peering through the bars of the huge gates at the glorious marbled mansion. But they quickly learned to listen out for the horns that announced Duke Gello’s arrival. For neither the Duke nor his black-garbed escort ever stopped their horses or even slowed down if people were in their path.

‘Make way for the Duke!’ the roar went up and the score or so of onlookers scattered.

Gello urged his big black warhorse to greater speed as he made for the gate, cracking his whip both left and right. If these peasants did not give him the respect he deserved by clearing a path and bowing low, they would pay the price. One older man, a little slow to move, yowled as the whip slashed across his shoulders.

Just behind him, the commander of his guard sent a pair of children leaping for safety as his horse’s iron-shod hooves struck sparks from the cobbles. Gello’s mouth twisted in a smile of grim satisfaction at the cries of fear and protest that followed him but he did not bother to look around. Peasants needed to know their place and that rabble by the gate had just learned theirs. Guards swung the gates shut behind the last rider and the party galloped up the driveway to the stables that were bigger than almost every other house in the capital.

‘This is an outrage! We’re going to see the militia!’ the injured man’s wife screamed at the gate guards, while her husband howled with pain, his tunic slashed across the shoulders and blood dripping from where the whip had laid open his upper back.

‘Go to the militia? As if the shit-slingers could do anything to Duke Gello!’ one of the guards sneered.

‘Get out of here before anything else happens to you,’ the other slammed the haft of his spear into the metal bars of the gate, making them ring harshly. ‘Make us come out there and you’ll be sorry!’

Muttering, the crowd slunk away.

Duke Gello could have looked back and seen them go—but he had no time for that. These people were far beneath his notice. He strode through the house and up to his study, where his guests waited.

Count Cessor was plump while Earl Worick was lean but they had much in common. Their lands shared a border, they were two of the more powerful Norstaline nobles, they always obeyed Duke Gello and had answered his summons immediately. They leapt to their feet when he walked in, shadowed by the commander of his personal guard, a lean killer called Chelten.

Tall, wide-shouldered and thin-hipped, blond-haired, with a square chin, powerful nose and blue eyes, Gello was the embodiment of a saga hero. Only the mouth, full-lipped and inclined to twist into a sneer rather than a smile, cast a shadow on that image. But for Cessor and Worick he was at his most fulsome.

‘You’re probably wondering why I asked you to come and see me like this,’ he said pleasantly.

Neither said anything, because Gello had not phrased it as a question.

‘My friends, the time is upon us. Having my cousin sit on the throne as a queen is an affront to this proud country, an insult to God and the dragons. I shall wait no longer. I intend to create a crisis. You two will lead the Royal Council to declare a state of emergency and appoint me regent. I will handle things from there,’ he smiled.

‘Crisis? What crisis could possibly justify calling for the Queen to be replaced? We still have many nobles who will not sanction that—we could end up being executed for treason!’ Cessor blurted.

Gello’s smile vanished. He stalked across to stand in front of Cessor, who tried to lean back into his chair to get away. He would have gone back further only Chelten loomed over him from behind.

‘Are you saying you don’t trust me? You are thinking that perhaps the country is better under my dear cousin?’

Cessor tried to shake his head, while Worick shuffled his chair across, to be a little further away from his fellow noble.

‘Then remember all those who obey me shall be richly rewarded. Those who oppose me…’ He stared into Cessor’s eyes, while the noble writhed with fear.

‘I have always been loyal! Of course I will do what you ask!’ Cessor gabbled.

‘I know you will. Because otherwise Chelten will pay a visit to your precious daughters. Understand?’

Cessor nodded his head violently, his eyes wide with horror.

Gello smiled wolfishly, then patted Cessor’s fat cheek. Behind the noble, Chelten took a reluctant step backwards.

‘Good. I will ensure anyone who might stand in our way will be out of the city for that council meeting. And, as to the crisis, why, it will be the biggest crisis this country has ever faced! I am going to steal the Dragon Sword.’

Worick dropped his wineglass, while Cessor nearly choked on his mouthful but neither dared to say anything.

‘Now, this is how we shall do it…’

Father Enterius Nott had been a priest for almost sixty years now and more than forty of those had been spent in Chell.

It had been a good life, in the main. Days of simple duty to his God and his flock, helping guide the villagers through their lives. He had no ambition to be anything more than a village priest and had turned down several offers to move to towns or even cities. Feeling the seasons change, seeing the crops and the animals grow, these were the things he loved. Thanks to Aroaril, few were his villagers who died of illness. His prayers for healing were almost always answered. There had been the one notable exception, but he could look back on a life spent keeping this small part of Norstalos peaceful and healthy. Few could ask for anything more. But now he felt disquiet. As a rule of the church, all priests had to retire at eighty, as it was felt the demands of looking after their flock were too much after then. He also suspected he was about to be called into another kind of service by his God. He had never been gifted with divination, the way many of his fellow priests had. But his dreams were getting more and more vivid—and distressing. He had seen days of blood and pain approaching, of armies and battles. His immediate superior, Bishop Gameron, was skilled in divination.

‘Norstalos is going through a pivotal point in its history,’ he had said. ‘I cannot see the exact nature of our future but it will force us to face a greater evil than even old King Riel dealt with. Whatever happens, the country is going to be fundamentally changed. The people are not ready for this; they have lived with peace for too long. They will try to hide from their responsibilities. But eventually they will be forced to fight.’ And he had admitted he could not see how it was going to end. ‘You should be thankful to miss it, my friend,’ he had joked.

‘I would rather it not happen at all,’ Nott had replied wryly.

Then the dream had come last night. Or rather, the message from Aroaril. It was impossible to mistake it for anything else. The trick was how much he could reveal. Say too much and the very opposite of what Aroaril intended could come to pass. All that was good in Norstalos, perhaps even the world, would be lost.

He had been thinking on it all day. So it was with both a feeling of delight and trepidation that he heard Karia’s voice outside his house once more. He stood and watched the unlikely pair approach his home. His heart ached when he saw Karia. She was filthy, and painfully thin. It was obvious that Edil had been as bad a father as he had feared. As for the man who had brought her back to him—the pain in him, the anger and the loathing, they almost made Nott quail. But he knew what he had to do. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to greet them.

Martil nearly stopped in shock. Karia had said Father Nott was ‘very old’, but Martil had assumed she had been speaking with all the experience of a six-year-old, to whom anyone over thirty years was ancient. But Father Nott really was elderly. The priest’s sparse white hair barely covered his scalp, and his face was deeply lined and marked with age spots. His hands, gnarled and twisted, shook slightly. But his eyes were a bright blue, they sparkled with life, and his smile was warm and genuine.

‘Karia!’ he exclaimed.

‘Father!’ she cried and raced into his arms, hugging him as if she would never let him go. Then she was crying, sobbing as if she could erase the memories of the past six months in one flood of tears.

Martil did not quite know where to look and could not help but feel she was far better off here than with Edil, himself or even this mysterious Uncle Danir.

At last her tears dried up and turned into soft sniffles. ‘And who are you and what are you doing here?’ Nott asked, looking up at Martil from where he cuddled Karia.

‘It is a long story, Father,’ Martil sighed.

‘Come on in. I might be getting on a bit but I still have time for a long story or two,’ the old priest smiled, then pointed at the swords hanging from Martil’s hips. ‘But can you leave those outside, my son? I don’t believe in having them in my house.’

Martil slipped off his sword belt, wrapped it around his swords and left them outside, propped up beside the front door. Not feeling their familiar weight was both relaxing and disquieting.

Father Nott showed them into his house; Karia obviously remembered where to go, for she rushed straight to the kitchen, while Martil followed the old priest at his much slower pace. The home was simply furnished—basic wooden furniture and not too much of it—but it was overlaid with a feeling of calmness. Just being inside there made Martil feel relaxed. He knew many priests lived in luxury while their flock suffered but this home was no more than the average farmer would have. Karia had installed herself at the large kitchen table and was waiting excitedly for food. Father Nott patted her absently on the head as he went past, opened a cupboard and took out a half-loaf of bread and a lump of cheese, which he placed on a plate and popped in front of her.

‘Tea?’ he asked Martil.

‘Please. But can I help you?’ Martil offered, seeing how Father Nott’s hand shook as he held the kettle.

‘Sit down. The day I can’t make tea is the day I finally meet my God,’ the old priest chuckled, placing the kettle on the stovetop. Martil sat down beside Karia, who was already ripping off chunks of bread and cheese and wolfing into them—although Martil knew she had eaten two apples, several sticks of dried meat and a hefty oatcake already. He watched the old priest bustle around the kitchen, digging out cups, dropping in chunks of crystallised honey and then preparing the teapot with tea leaves.

‘I take it we will not be seeing Edil again, not until my day of judgement, anyway,’ Nott said quietly, producing a jug of milk and pouring out a glass for Karia.

Martil glanced at Karia, unsure what to say.

‘You do not have to say anything more. I always knew that family would come to a bad end. I am just glad to see that Karia is still alive,’ Nott said calmly, as he poured the tea. ‘I hope you like honey.’

‘Of course.’ Martil never drank tea with honey usually—the chances of getting honey and milk with army-issue tea were about the same as having a Berellian axeman offer to read you a bedtime story. But his future freedom depended on impressing this priest.

‘I knew Edil would not treat her very well. But this is far beyond what I expected. She has not been to see me, or even to the village school I run, in months. Now I see why. She’s smaller than when she left here and she actually had clothes of her own back then. Once she has eaten, I think it will be time for a bath, then she can go to bed. And then, perhaps, you can tell me what happened.’

‘Are you talking about me?’ Karia looked up from her food.

‘We were just saying that old tunic is not as good as the dress you left here in,’ Father Nott said smoothly, as Martil struggled to think what to say.

‘Didn’t have time to pack when we ran from the farm,’ Karia explained. ‘I had to leave everything behind and then Da could never find a traveller with a little girl to take a new dress from.’

‘These are the struggles of being a bandit that the sagas never tell us about,’ Father Nott intoned, giving Martil a wink.

‘Are you being silly, Father?’ Karia stopped guzzling milk and looked up, a frothy moustache on her grubby face.

‘Just a little, my dear. Now, how about a bath?’

‘Do I have to?’

‘If you want to sleep here tonight you do. Even the pigs might kick you out of the sty tonight, the way you are smelling.’

Karia giggled and then burped.

Martil sought a way of escaping bathtime.

‘Well, I need to go and see the local militia and explain what happened today,’ he announced.

Nott looked at him as if he knew exactly why Martil wanted to leave but merely said: ‘Edil and his boys were well known around here. You should have no problems with the militia. In fact, I should imagine they might even want to buy you a drink for your efforts.’

Martil did not show it but he was relieved to hear the old priest’s words. The militia might be pleased to see the end of Edil but they might be just as happy to lock up a stranger until they had extracted most of his gold.

‘If there is trouble, ask them to see me. And it might be as well if you take your swords with you. There’s not many men around here who could claim to have…removed…Edil and his three sons without receiving so much as a scratch.’

‘Do you have anything for dessert?’ Karia interrupted and Nott chuckled.

‘After your bath we might think about it. Now come on. You’ll have to help me fill the tub.’

Martil took this as his cue to leave the cosy domestic scene. Swinging on his swords and walking towards the militia post felt like an escape—but he could not help but think it was a temporary one. Father Nott was far too old to look after a small girl. In fact it was amazing he had not been called up to serve his God more personally before now.

Martil stopped off at Tomon, where he unsaddled the horse and fed him. The feel of the saddlebags reminded him he had left a fortune in gold just sitting in the open. Even for someone who cared little about money, it was foolish. He left the bags in the old priest’s bathhouse before walking to the militia post, reflecting that Father Nott may be old, but help could be bought with gold.

Sergeant Hutter liked a quiet life, which was why Chell suited him perfectly. In the big towns and cities, sergeants of the militia had to deal with professional thieves, brawls, riots and murderers. Here, a few drunks and the odd theft was the extent of the problems. There was Edil and his sons but until he could get some extra men from his captain, he had no intention of chasing around the woods looking for them. At one time he had dreamed of wearing the golden epaulettes of a captain, of serving in the big cities and even meeting the King. But a few years of midnight patrols had dampened his enthusiasm, and then seeing his partner get stabbed to death beside him had put him off promotion. He had received his sergeant’s stripes for bringing in the killer and had managed to land this cushy post afterwards. That was enough for him, and his wife and children appreciated the country life better than the cramped terrace house they’d had back in the city. Now his expanding stomach showed how much he enjoyed the locally-grown produce. He had the respect of the community and set himself up as the perfect trainer for young recruits, which he sent on to the towns after a few years. Impressing young recruits and old farmers was more than enough excitement for the pay he received.

But he had not lost his instinct for danger. This was why the hairs on the back of his neck stood up when the warrior with the two swords walked into his militia post. Quickly he rounded up his three men from various parts of the building and together they listened to the man’s story.

‘So you killed them all? Edil and his sons are just lying out there in the forest?’ he could not help but ask at the finish.

The man turned those eyes on him and it was all Hutter could do to stop the shiver down his spine.

‘That’s what I said,’ he repeated.

Hutter thought about it for a moment. How best to tackle this one without trouble?

‘Can I get your name?’ he asked curiously. Edil and his sons had not been particularly skilled but odds of four to one were enough for most men.

‘Martil. I’m a former war captain in the Ralloran army,’ the man explained.

Something stirred in Hutter’s memory, the way his afternoon snack had been stirring in his stomach since this warrior walked in.

‘War Captain Martil? The Butcher of Bellic?’ he breathed.

He saw the man’s face tighten in anger for a moment, then relax.

‘Aye. But I prefer just Martil now,’ the man said coolly.

Hutter ignored that. If the fabled War Captain Martil had been attacked by Edil, then the vicious old fool and his brutal sons had obviously paid the price and he was well rid of a thorny problem. Best of all, he would not have to try and arrest this warrior.

‘You are welcome to go back and have a look. I’m staying with Father Nott,’ Martil offered.

Hutter snorted. He could see one problem was solved and he had no intention of looking for another. ‘No need for that! Let the animals choke on their rotten carcasses! We should give you a medal for cleaning out that pit of vipers! I’ve got a file as thick as my new constable here on Edil and his sons. Stealing animals, waylaying travellers—you name it. If the forest wasn’t so big, I’d have been ordered to muster the village and hunt them down. But they were stupid enough, or smart enough, never to be truly successful bandits and make the trouble of hunting them down worth it. No, I’ll file a report for my captain and then breathe a sigh of relief.’

‘I’m free to go and get some supplies then?’ Martil asked.

‘Of course! Enjoy yourself! We might even go and buy you a drink later.’

Martil left smiling; Karia had not been mentioned and he preferred to keep it that way.

The militia watched Martil walk across to the inn and disappear inside.

Hutter’s new constable, a gangly youth named Turen, broke the silence.

‘Should we watch him, Sarge? There’s something strange here. I mean, it took all four of us to bring down Edil’s son Hibbet when he’d had too much to drink, the black-bearded bastard.’

Hutter cuffed him over the head. ‘He’s Captain Martil. One of the Butchers of Bellic. They say he used to eat Berellian axemen for breakfast, and dine on the souls of their weeping families. Edil and his boys wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

Turen nodded doubtfully, while the other two muttered agreement. But the young man still had one more question.

‘How do you dine on someone’s soul, Sarge? Surely it wouldn’t taste very nice?’

Hutter sighed. ‘Maybe I should get you to watch this Martil. You’ll anger him and then he’ll have removed my two biggest problems in the one day.’

Cezar liked to work alone. Once released to find his targets, he could not be stopped. But this was no ordinary mission. Apart from what it meant to King Markuz, if King Tolbert found out the Berellian Champion was in his country killing Ralloran officers, even disgraced ex-officers, it would be enough to start a new war. Besides, without the help of Brother Onzalez, he would not be able to find his prey so easily and quickly. Of course, travelling around Rallora with a Fearpriest would have been impossible but Onzalez had other, magical, means of being contacted. Cezar was hidden in a stable, where the bizarre ritual would not attract any attention. He had killed a goat, then filled a shallow silver bowl with its blood. Then he called Onzalez’s true name, the name Zorva had given him, the name emblazoned on Onzalez’s robe. It was in an ancient language and Cezar had had to practise it a dozen times before he had got the inflection and phrasing right. But by now he had mastered it; proof of that was when the blood in the bowl began to swirl, faster and faster, then suddenly stopped and became as clear and smooth as a silvered mirror. Onzalez’s face—or rather his cowled and hidden face—appeared in the surface.

‘Macord is dead,’ Cezar said simply.

‘Ride east from where you are. The village of Quall is where Captain Snithe lives. He drinks heavily. It will be easy. But you must hurry. I have received another vision from our God, and it tells me that what you are doing is even more important than we imagined. One of these five men will be a danger to us. End it.’

‘As you command.’ Cezar bowed his head. By the time he raised it again, Onzalez’s face had disappeared, as had the blood in the bowl.

Martil drank two tankards of reasonable ale, then bought oats, dried meat, salt, fruit and honey-almond sweets from the innkeeper. Normally he would never have touched the last but he had a feeling he might need them for Karia at some point.

He was given a wide berth by the various farmers and villagers who gathered in the inn. His initial plan had been to stay there until he was sure Karia was asleep. But despite the size of the village, the inn was packed. He had been curious about that—until he spotted the distinctive costume of a bard warming up in the corner. He could not help but groan. Bards travelled around the country, bringing news to small villages such as this, as well as to bigger towns and cities, then performed sagas in song or poem form, or both. Martil had no problem with the news but he hated the sagas. Partly because there were plenty that seemed to feature him—but mostly because they were never true. The bards who sang or recited these sagas had never been near a battlefield—and consequently their songs and poems concentrated heavily on heroism and self-sacrifice and never mentioned spilled intestines. He hated them because he had once enjoyed them, once believed them, until he joined up and saw the real thing. He sighed. Even before the prospect of being forced to sit and listen to a bunch of sagas, he had wanted to get out. It was on nights such as these, when he watched men greet old friends, and swap stories over a few ales, that he felt the most lonely.

Once he had had friends. But then they were killed and he became a captain. And once you were a war captain, you did not have friends. You had men who served you, you had rivals, you had enemies aplenty, but you did not have friends.

The bard warmed up with a saga poem about King Riel, the Norstaline monarch who had been given a sword by the dragons themselves. It was all Martil could do not to spit in disgust. When he had been a new recruit, he had dreamed of following a noble king, of being part of an army that saved his country. Then he had fought his first battle and swiftly became concerned with just staying alive. And when he became a war captain, and sat in on war councils with the King, he came to realise that kings were just like everyone else. He saw the petty jealousies, the fears, the whims indulged. He could smell the King’s bad breath and see how foolish he looked when he drank too much. It was hard to think of a king as a being touched by Aroaril when he threw up after gorging himself, or roared with laughter watching sycophants pretending not to be bothered by the stench of his farts. No, far better to stay away from royalty.

Martil looked around and decided he wanted to get out of the inn, even if it meant seeing Karia again. He looked behind the bar, where the innkeeper kept an hourglass hanging on the wall, but the man had become engrossed in the bard’s peformance and forgotten to turn it, the sands lying quietly in the base of the glass turner. Still, surely enough time had passed that she would be asleep, he reasoned.

He left, slinging his sack full of food over one shoulder, and breathing deeply once he was outside. He walked back to the priest’s house, ignoring the few villagers still out and about at this time. Most were either in the inn or at home, eating with their families and playing with their children. He knew what it had been like. Once he had lived like this, before the war came to his country. He did not need to look into the houses to see what they were doing. Nor did he want to. Seeing happy families was too painful.

He discovered Father Nott sitting quietly, pouring himself a glass of whisky. He had the strange feeling the old man had been waiting nervously for his return.

‘My one vice. Some say it’s the secret to my long life and good health,’ the old priest greeted him.

‘What do you say?’

‘They are fools. Aroaril keeps me here, not a glass of fermented grain. Join me?’

‘Is she asleep?’

Nott chuckled. ‘Do you think I would be sitting here quietly if she wasn’t? After her bath, and two helpings of cherry pie, she fell asleep, protesting that she was not in the least bit tired.’

Martil relaxed a little and sat down opposite the old priest.

‘I’d love one. The combination of average ale and bad sagas in the inn has my stomach churning,’ he said.

‘Ah, yes, we have a bard in town tonight. And no doubt you have seen too much war to enjoy foolish tales about it now,’ Nott said as he first poured, then passed a whisky to Martil.

Martil decided to break the silence.

‘So, looking after young children, is that the sort of thing you do often?’

Nott smiled sadly. ‘Karia was only the second. The first was her mother.’

Martil sipped his drink. ‘Her mother?’

‘Aye. My wife had just died and we had not been blessed with children during our marriage. I did not know why, and Aroaril would not answer my prayers on the subject. Then this baby was abandoned, given over to my care. I saw it as part of a grand plan. This, obviously, was the reason why I had never had children, so I would be free to look after this one. She was a beautiful child and grew into a beautiful woman. Too beautiful for these parts. I’d had such hopes for her.’

Nott paused and Martil saw him struggle to contain his emotions.

‘Foolish pride. The decent men around here would not go near her. All thought she was too good just to work the fields. Instead, to my dismay, it was a roguish farmer called Edil who charmed her. You may not have seen that when you met him, but he could talk the birds out of the trees, had he the wish.’

Martil nodded. ‘I could see that. He spoke like no ordinary bandit, kept me talking even when I knew it was a trap. An inexperienced girl…’ he broke off as he realised he was about to talk about Nott’s adopted daughter.

But Nott just grunted his acknowledgement. ‘Then you understand. Against my better judgement, aye, and my wishes, they were married. He had tempted her with talk of silk and jewels, he had dazzled her with tales of Norstalos City. She wanted more than a village life. He promised her the world. What he gave her was a servant’s existence out at his farm, and a child who killed her, despite all my efforts.’

Nott stopped and took a sip of drink before he continued. ‘Mara, Karia’s mother, was made to keep working through her pregnancy. She nearly lost the child and I had to beg Aroaril to give me the power to save them. I thought my prayer had been granted but it was more subtle than that. You know of a priest’s powers?’

Martil nodded. ‘You can ask Aroaril for magic. If you and the request are worthy, Aroaril will grant you power to heal people, bring rain to dry fields, all sorts of things.’

‘So you did listen in church. But Aroaril works to a plan that none of us can imagine. He saved the mother, but only so He could save the child. Mara’s lifeforce brought Karia into the world but there was not enough left to save her.’

‘What nonsense is that, Father? Surely Aroaril can do anything He wants.’ Martil felt especially sensitive to stories of divine intervention. He had heard far too many tales that Aroaril was going to come down and save Rallora from the invading Berellians to put much stock in them.

‘One thing I have learned is that His plans are not for the likes of us to know. And they are mocked at your peril.’ His voice was mild but Nott’s steely gaze left Martil in no doubt this was a dangerous subject. Understandably enough, Martil thought. You watch the girl you raised as a daughter die giving birth to your granddaughter and the God you have served all your life refuses your pleas to save her.

Nott continued. ‘Of course Edil had no use for a baby on the farm. So she was left with me. Karia is a special girl. In my foolish pride—again! You would think I had learned—I boasted of her abilities, and word of it reached Edil’s ears. He wanted her back, for he thought she could help provide for him. He threatened to go to my bishop over it…I could not stand in his way, despite her tears. Now I see her here and I wonder if this was part of Aroaril’s plan.’

Martil could see the conversation going down a worrying road.

‘It seems to me that He was testing you and now the circle is complete, she is back in your care,’ he suggested.

‘It is not that simple,’ Nott said heavily. ‘You are no ordinary man. And you arrive today. An unusual child, an unusual man, bound together by a common purpose. But to what end?’

Martil could feel his temper rising but he quashed it ruthlessly.

‘Now look here, Father, I am no plaything of the Gods. I have seen too much death and pain on too many battlefields to think that there is some higher plan in all we do. Zorva’s balls, if I…’

‘How dare you?’ Nott snarled. ‘Never mention that name in my house!’

‘But that was just a harmless jest…’

Nott’s eyes flashed fire and he seemed to swell in anger. ‘There are no harmless jests concerning that foul God. Understand?’

Martil gulped. If he was going to persuade Nott to take on Karia, he had better not offend him. ‘My apologies, Father. It is a bad habit of mine, to make a joke like that. My friends and I used to laugh about it. I won’t let it happen again.’

Nott was breathing heavily, and his face had lost its colour. ‘To joke about the Dark One is to risk his attention. Believe me when I say you do not want that. It was his agents that seduced the Berellian King, and led to years of war and suffering down south. But at least you believe in that, don’t you?’

Martil smiled grimly. ‘I know all about it. I was there from the start. Part of the Ralloran army that went to help the Avish against the Berellian invasion, only to learn that it was a trap and the two of them intended to parcel us up. I was there when we were beaten, only to be saved when the arrogant Berellians turned on the Avish, wanting a bigger share of our country. I was there when we finally drove them out. And I was there when the Berellians broke the truce and we destroyed their city of Bellic so they could never rise against us again. Now I just want to buy a mansion on the coast, enjoy the sun and have the rich merchants fighting to marry their daughters off to me.’ Martil was aware he was letting his mouth run away with him and shut it, before he said something that would really offend the priest.

‘You have earned the right to peace. But if there is one thing I know, it is that we do not get what we want. We get what Aroaril knows we need. And what you both need is to go to Thest.’

Martil was horrified at the thought. ‘What I need, and what the girl needs, is for you to look after her or at least keep her until you can send word to her uncle Danir in Thest.’

Nott finished his drink and took a long moment before he looked up at Martil again.

‘I cannot do what you ask. Tomorrow is my eightieth birthday and, according to the rules of my order, I am to return to Norstalos City, there to live out the rest of my days in our Chapter House. My replacement will arrive here tomorrow, along with my bishop. Karia cannot stay here and she would not be allowed in the Chapter House.’

Martil fought to control his temper. ‘I suppose this is the purpose you were talking about.’

Nott smiled gently. ‘My son, I have done many strange things in my life but I can assure you that growing old to spite you is not one of them. Now, please listen to me. There are things happening in my country that disturb me. The priesthood has always stayed out of politics but that does not mean we are blind and deaf to events that are going on around us. Norstalos has a queen, for the first time in its history, who cannot use the Dragon Sword, for the dragons made it so only a man can draw it from its scabbard. No noble was judged worthy, which means until the Queen has a son, she needs a Champion to wield it on her behalf. The people have always believed that the Dragon Sword has magically protected this country and need the reassurance that its power is working to keep them safe.’ Nott held up a hand as Martil opened his mouth. ‘I know, it sounds unbelievable that a sword can somehow keep a country at peace. I am one of the few people who suspect this power of the Sword is more legend than reality. Nevertheless, most people believe it to be true, for we have not suffered the wars and invasions that have plagued every other country. If a lie is repeated often enough, then it becomes a kind of truth. Whether the Sword protects us or not, understand that unless there is someone in the palace holding that Sword soon, things will happen to change this peaceful country. When you leave here with Karia, there are many paths you can take. But there is only one that will not lead to your doom. You and Karia must go to Thest.’

Martil ignored that. ‘I came here because this country is supposed to be peaceful! What do you think will happen?’

Nott shrugged his shoulders. ‘I am not skilled in divination. But I do know there is a rising tide of fear and anger in this country, as well as resentment at a woman on the throne. And waiting in the wings is Duke Gello, who would have been King if the Dragon Sword had accepted him. He is known to be ambitious and ruthless. It is not hard to imagine what might happen if the Queen does not win the support of the people. However, we are talking about Thest. You must swear to me that you will both go there. For the sake of you both. Think of it as a second chance, an atonement.’

Martil snorted. ‘Atonement? Did you hear about Bellic? I was one of the war captains that gave the final order to destroy the town.’

Nott sighed. ‘Aroaril has shown me your past. Of course, I knew about Bellic already, which is why I know the guilt is not yours alone. That is why they talk of the Butchers of Bellic. There were five of you.’

Martil felt his throat choke up but refused to let it stop him. There were things that needed to be said. ‘It has to be my guilt. I could have stopped them. We were deadlocked, two for sacking the town, two for starving them out. It was my vote that decided it. I let my anger get the better of me. And now I must live with what I did. A second chance? To give me a little girl to look after? How can that be weighed against the hundreds of dead children we left in Bellic? Someone above must be laughing at this.’

Nott stood with surprising swiftness and grabbed hold of Martil’s arm. ‘This is the last time I tell you. Do not mock what you cannot understand,’ he warned. His eyes, so blue and so knowing, bored into Martil’s. ‘Karia is not an ordinary girl. The intervention of Aroaril…When I say she is special, I do not mean she can perform counting tricks or amuse others. There is a power within her. Not the power that I get from Aroaril but magic, real magic that can form the world around her. That was why Edil wanted her back. He thought she could be turned into a magician that could bring him the riches he had always desired. So do not tell me she does not have a purpose. And so do you. A man haunted by the death of children has the opportunity to care for one. I see nothing funny in that. And I see Karia as my granddaughter. Would I let her go with someone who would hurt her? You are a better man than you think. One day you might even make a good man. So tell me, do you regret what happened at Bellic?’

Martil, trapped both by Nott’s gaze and his surprisingly strong grip, could not escape. Everything that he kept bottled up, that had exploded out of him when he killed Edil, overwhelmed him.

‘Of course,’ he said thickly. ‘I regret it with every breath.’

‘Do you? Do you really? Or do you just regret that it has meant you are no longer a hero?’

Martil glared up at him. ‘I never cared about being a hero! But I care about not being able to sleep for nightmares about Bellic! I care that my decision saw hundreds of women and children die, destroyed the lives of the men who followed my orders! I care that I must carry the guilt for the rest of my worthless life!’

Nott stared into his eyes, then nodded grimly. ‘If that is true, you must travel to Thest. Swear it, if you truly wish to repent. Swear!’

‘But I already have! I swore to Aroaril!’ Martil protested. ‘Back when I…I swore to her half-brother!’

‘Again! Swear to me!’

Martil could not look away. ‘I swear by Aroaril to take Karia to Thest,’ he gasped.

As he said the words, Nott’s hand on his arm grew suddenly warm for an instant. The priest stared into his eyes for a moment longer, before smiling.

‘Now you must hold to that oath. The path to your only chance of happiness leads there. Understand?’

He released Martil’s arm but did not move away. Martil managed to swallow again.

‘I’m not deaf, or stupid. You want me to go to Thest. Just tell me why!’

Nott snorted. ‘You would not believe me if I told you. But I can tell you that breaking that oath will lead to so much misery that Bellic will seem like a fond memory.’

Martil, thoroughly shaken by now, and overcome with guilt, simply nodded.

Nott passed a hand over his face and scrubbed at it wearily before looking back at Martil. ‘You should leave early. This parting will be hard on Karia. Get some sleep. Are you hungry?’

Caught off balance by Nott’s change of subject, Martil admitted he was, and Nott led the way into the kitchen, where he produced a plate of ham, and took off a pot lid to reveal turnips and swedes gently bubbling on the wood-fired stove.

‘Wash your plate once you have eaten. And you may sleep out here. I am going to bed,’ Nott announced. He seemed exhausted.

‘Is going to Thest really the only way for me?’ Martil tried one last time.

Nott sniffed. ‘Only if you want to rid yourself of your nightmares. Sleep well.’

Martil doubted that was going to happen, but said nothing. He deliberately did not think, just ate mechanically; the food was hardly tasty but to a man who had managed to stomach army rations for half his life, it was fine. He washed his plate in the deep sink, pumping the water in until it was clean, then looked out of the window to see Tomon in the paddock outside. It was like waking up. Part of him was saying he should just walk out now, saddle the horse and ride. He could leave gold on the table and let the priest fix the problem of Karia. But what then, the greater part of him said. Back to the drinking and the dreams? Hadn’t he sworn to change, then sworn an oath—twice!—that he would take Karia to Thest? What lay ahead in Thest? And what waited for him if he did not go? How had that priest managed to affect him so? He felt torn. Then, making a decision, he turned away from the window and the lure of a fast escape on Tomon. Yes, he wanted to run. Spending more time with Karia was not something he wanted to do. But he was desperate. After Bellic, after leaving Rallora, after the slaughter of Edil…things had to change. He found he liked the idea there was a path to happiness ahead. He would go to Thest and trust the old priest. He grabbed a cushion from a chair, a blanket from his bag and lay on the floor to sleep, hoping not to dream about Bellic.

3

The inn was almost shaking, the singing was so loud. Soldiers’ songs, all about marching, loved ones back home, and the girls who liked a man in uniform. Every night it was the same. Drink too much, sing, and then get into a fight. And it was all the man once known as War Captain Snithe had to look forward to these days. Once this had been his home village but then the war had come and what was a man to do but fight? Now it was the same village he remembered, but he was a different man to the one who had marched to war. Many of the villagers avoided him when they could. At first, almost all of them had respected him, even if he was tainted with the blood of Bellic. But now many were privately suggesting the militia be called in to keep him quiet and some were even calling for him to be kicked out.

He had consumed at least ten pints of ale and it was with great difficulty that he negotiated the narrow passage that led to the ramshackle wooden building over a deep cesspit. Once inside, he untied his trews with exaggerated care—then caught sight of a dark figure joining him.

‘Need a piss, too?’ he asked in a friendly way, but the figure just stepped in close and plunged a knife into his chest.

‘King Markuz hopes you rot for an eternity, Captain Snithe,’ Cezar hissed as Snithe choked and died. Swiftly he cut the man’s heart out as a trophy for Markuz, then dropped him into the cesspit. He knew there would be no shortage of suspects. It would take the local militia days to sort it out. Long enough for him to finish the job.

It seemed as if Martil had just closed his eyes when he felt someone shaking him. He had been having a dream about that last war council before Bellic. But in this one, the other captains were all covered in blood. Behind them sat the dead children of Bellic. His eyes snapped open to see Karia’s face a few inches from his own.

‘What!’ Martil gasped. He had not slept through someone approaching him for many years and the combination of that and his dream left his heart pounding.

‘Father Nott is still tired but he said you would get me some breakfast,’ she announced. She looked far better this morning, although no doubt the bath had a great deal to do with that. Her hair was even mostly brushed.

Martil looked out of the window to see it was just dawn. He rubbed his eyes and swallowed, his mouth feeling as though something foul had slept in it. He needed a drink of water, and then he needed something hot inside him.

‘What do you want to eat?’

‘What is there?’

Martil went to investigate and found Father Nott’s pantry rather bare. He suspected he and Karia had eaten most of the food last night. The milk smelt off and the remaining bread was hard. He sawed thick hunks off the loaf, which he held close to the coals of the stove fire. Karia demanded a turn, and then polished off four slices of toasted bread, two with honey on, two with cheese on.

‘Thirsty now.’

So Martil had to leave his own toasted bread and hunt around until he found a stone jug half-full of apple juice. He poured out two goblets and was just sitting down again when she finished hers.

‘Can I make some for Father Nott now?’

With a sigh, Martil helped her prepare toast and juice for Father Nott. He was wondering if he would ever get a chance to eat himself. So he was heartily thankful when Father Nott’s door opened and the old priest stepped out, wrapping a woollen robe around himself. Karia also seemed thankful, as she ran over to hug him. Once he had made it to the kitchen table, Father Nott allowed Karia to scramble onto his lap.

‘What are we doing today?’ she asked.

Father Nott put down his slice of toast. ‘We are doing nothing. I have some people coming to visit me, and I have to pack. You will be leaving with Martil here.’

‘I’m taking you to your uncle Danir,’ Martil added hastily.

It took a moment for this to all sink in, then her face twisted in horror and she stared up at Father Nott. ‘You mean I can’t stay here?’

‘No, my dear. I can’t stay here, either. I am leaving to go back to my Chapter House, and another priest is coming to live here.’

‘But I want to stay with you! Why can’t I stay with you?’ she screamed and then burst into tears.

Nott tried, and failed, to soothe her.

‘I’m not going. You can’t make me!’

Martil felt he had had enough. ‘You can’t speak to the Father like that!’ he snapped.

‘Who asked you? You can’t make me do anything!’ she shrieked at him.

‘Martil! Please!’ Father Nott tried to step in but as far as Martil was concerned, this was a battle of wills that had to be won if he was to take her to her uncle’s home.

‘You will do what I say,’ he told her.

‘Why? You’re not my father! You killed my father!’ She grabbed an empty goblet and hurled it at Martil, who had to duck to avoid it.

‘Karia!’ Father Nott admonished but Martil’s anger burst into flame and he surged to his feet.

‘Why you…!’

‘No!’ Karia saw the look in his eyes and rolled into a ball, arms over her head for protection, screaming and crying.

Martil’s anger disappeared in an instant and he stood there, feeling sick to the stomach, guilt and shame thick in his throat.

Father Nott patted Karia gently and looked up at Martil. ‘I understand you do not know much about children. But neither did I, and I learned. She needs a little time to get used to this situation. Try and see it from her point of view. She thought she would be coming back to live in the only loving home she has known.’

‘Well, can you see why I should not be looking after her?’ Martil argued.

Father Nott smiled. ‘But you are only taking her to her uncle. Surely you can survive a few days with her, until you reach the village of Thest.’

Martil stopped. That oath seemed like an intolerable burden right now.

‘I need some fresh air,’ he declared. ‘And I need to saddle my horse.’

‘First you must apologise to her,’ Father Nott warned. ‘She thinks you were going to hit her, and that is not a good thing. She must learn to trust you and that violence does not solve anything.’

Martil could not help but laugh. ‘I’ve found it remarkably useful at times.’ He paused and looked at the sniffling Karia, whose great whooping sobs seemed to shake her whole body. ‘I’ll talk to her when I come back.’

He went into the privy, and then the washroom, using the cold water from the pump to cool his anger. Nott was being too clever by half. His path to happiness was through that child? A child! More like a mobile screaming device, he thought sourly. He had endured enough this morning to convince him that the last thing he wanted was to spend more time with her. Well, he would show that priest. He would take her to Danir and make sure she was comfortable, then ride away without a backward glance.

He went out to where his bags sat and dug out some soap and a razor, before going back to the washroom. Father Nott had a small mirror, made of bronze, which stood above a large stone basin. Martil started to shave, scraping away the thick bristles covering his chin and cheeks. The face in the mirror looked back at him. The hair was just starting to recede, the nose a little too long, the brows too strong and the ears a little too big for him to ever be called handsome. His face was almost unscarred, except for a tiny nick on his cheek, which had been caused not by any Berellians but by Borin, when they had been children. The eyes were grey, but he found he could never look into his own eyes for long. Not any more. He finished shaving and then debated whether to feed Tomon or go back inside. He decided to leave the feeding for later; Karia might enjoy it. That strategy made him feel a little more confident when he walked back inside to see Karia finishing off Father Nott’s toast.

‘Karia, would you like to come and feed my horse?’ he offered.

She nodded, but made no move to get up.

‘You need to answer him, my dear,’ Father Nott said gently.

‘Y—yes please.’

‘Good. Come on then,’ Martil invited.

She glanced up at Father Nott, who nodded and smiled, so she slipped down to the floor and walked across to Martil, her eyes downcast. Martil looked at Father Nott, who was mouthing something at him. He guessed it was a request for an apology, so he got down on one knee, at her level.

‘Karia, I will never hit you. Never. I don’t hurt women or children.’ Any more, his treacherous mind added. ‘Do you understand?’

She looked up and nodded, although Martil could tell she was not convinced. Still, it was a start.

He congratulated himself on a brilliant idea, because she was delighted to see Tomon again, and doubly delighted to feed him. Martil showed her how to hold a handful of grain in her palm, so the horse could nibble it without touching her fingers, then gave her a small apple that Tomon could take and crunch up. Then he picked her up so she could slip the nosebag over Tomon’s head, and she helped Martil brush the horse while he munched. By the time they had finished, Father Nott had come out of the house to watch them.

‘You should probably leave now,’ he told Martil quietly. ‘Get your things—I’m sorry to say there is almost nothing of hers to take—while I watch her. The Bishop will be arriving soon and the presence of a small child, to say nothing of a Ralloran warrior, will be hard to explain. More importantly, she is in a good mood now. Best to take advantage of it.’

So Martil slipped away and then had Karia help him saddle Tomon, showing her how he put on the saddlebags. The next stop would be the town of Wollin, a full day’s ride away. He could have stopped at another village but he wanted somewhere where he could buy things for Karia. After all, bribes were a useful tactic of war. Father Nott gave Karia a long hug and a kiss, and then whispered a blessing to her. He nodded to Martil.

‘Time to go then, Karia,’ he said cheerily.

But she was ready for him, latching onto Father Nott’s leg and screaming.

‘You can’t stay here,’ Martil told her. ‘You have to go to your uncle.’ He was struck by a sudden thought. ‘And your uncle would be upset if you didn’t go to live with him. It’s what your father wanted. And I’ll let you pat Tomon again.’

She nodded slowly, and let go of Father Nott’s leg. Martil held out his hand and she screamed and grabbed hold of Father Nott’s arm instead.

‘Fine!’ Martil had had enough. ‘Father, good luck. Enjoy your retirement. I shall send word to you when Karia is with her uncle.’ Then he simply picked Karia up. She was not expecting that, and made a despairing grab for Father Nott. She missed, and Martil threw her over his shoulder.

‘Hold to your oath! Your future depends on it!’ Father Nott called.

Martil could barely hear him over the screaming. She was also trying to hit him, and was having some success. Getting onto Tomon was a challenge but the horse stood patiently and allowed him to swing up and then place her in front of him, where she could touch Tomon but not escape.

Martil did not bother to say anything else to Father Nott. It would have been pointless. Besides, the old priest was waving at Karia and looked as though he was crying. So Martil steered Tomon out of the village, and around it, rather than going down the main street, as Karia’s screams had attracted attention from the few homes nearby.

Father Nott watched them go and wondered if he had done enough—or too much. It was up to them now. He wished he had been able to go with them but that was not his destiny. That was a bitter thing to realise. Then there were the things he had seen but had not spoken of to Martil. A vision of how those two would not just save each other, but a third as well, so the three could save this country and eventually the world. How, or what from, he had no idea. But it was the only comfort he had. He just had to have faith.

‘You can’t keep screaming, you’ll make yourself sick,’ Martil told Karia, as he tried to put some distance between the screams and the village.

This had no effect, so he decided to resort to bribery. ‘I have some almond-honey sweets. But you can only have some if you stop yelling,’ he offered, although it was hard to get the necessary persuasiveness into his voice when he had to shout.

However, this seemed to work, for soon the screams became sobs, the sobs became sniffles, and she was able to demand: ‘Where’re my sweets?’

He dug out a handful and watched them disappear with amazing swiftness. It seemed that all the yelling had given her an appetite.

‘When can I go back to Father Nott?’ she demanded.

‘We’ve been through this. You can’t go back. You have to go and live with your uncle in Thest,’ Martil said patiently.

‘I hate you.’

He sighed. ‘This should be a fun journey.’

‘Well, I’m not having fun,’ she told him.

Norstalos was a peaceful country. It had been for centuries. And before that, the Royal Palace in Norstalos City had stood as a bastion of peace. Even in the darkest years of old King Riel’s reign, before he had gained the Dragon Sword, it had not been threatened. No unrest. No protests. No mobs demanding justice. Even the Poor Quarter was reasonably quiet—and not all that poor. So you could hardly blame the guards on the palace gate for feeling relaxed. Although they were veteran soldiers, they had been performing their duties for years without incident. What was the point of guarding something that had no threat?

Chelten knew all this as he led his six men across the plaza towards the palace. They made no attempt to hide, although there were no hiding places. Instead they marched casually up to the front gate. As hand-picked members of Duke Gello’s bodyguard, they had had ample legitimate opportunities to scout the palace and plan the night’s work. They still could have completed their mission had the guards been on high alert. But against a group of dozy men, lulled into boredom after guarding a palace in the softest, most secure city in the world—it would be too easy. Chelten almost smiled thinking about it as he approached the guards. His reward for the night would be the satisfaction of turning the Duke he had served all his adult life into the King. And then serving a king would bring material rewards—gold, land and women—from a grateful Gello.

‘Halt! Who are you and what is your business?’ one of the gate guards challenged. There were only two of them, although there was a bellpull behind them that would sound the alarm. But neither guard made even the slightest move towards this alarm. At first glance Chelten’s group was strange enough—they had arrived after midnight and were dressed all in black; black tunics and black leggings, broken only by the badge of Duke Gello over the left side of their chest.

Duke Gello was the commander of the army. Where could the harm be in men with his badge?

‘We are from Duke Gello—part of his bodyguard. We are here to steal the Dragon Sword, throw the country into chaos and allow our master to seize power,’ Chelten said conversationally.

Both guards roared with laughter.

‘An excellent jest! But seriously now, who are you here to see?’

Chelten pointed behind them.

‘Who’s your watch officer tonight?’

Both instinctively swivelled. ‘Lieutenant Blunt’s on tonight,’ one said. ‘Do you want us to call him?’

Chelten smiled. ‘No, I’ll find him,’ he said casually, then drew a long knife and slammed it into the back of the first guard’s neck. He liked working with knives. Knives could be concealed so easily on the body, whereas people were always asking you to take swords off, or hand them over. Besides, killing with a knife meant you had to get close to your victim. The second guard started to turn, but before he could open his mouth, Chelten’s men were on him, one holding his mouth shut as three others thrust short-swords into his lungs and heart.

‘Quickly now!’ Chelten urged them on as they dragged the bodies into the shadow of the gate and hurried over to the guardhouse where the rest of the guards would be relaxing between shifts. Not that Chelten was concerned by a handful of the Royal Guard. He had picked and trained his men for this night over the past year and he would back them against a force three times their number.

So it proved. Four men were relaxing in the gatehouse with their officer but, without a warning, they stood no chance. They were hacked down without mercy.

Chelten smiled thinly. He signalled for two men to watch the gate, then led the other four into the palace grounds. They paused by a servants’ door before going inside and he decided to run through the instructions one last time. They had trained incessantly for this but killing the guards would have got their blood racing. He wanted no mistakes.

‘The Dragon Sword will be guarded by no more than four men. We will need to be swift. Any servants we see must be killed instantly. Understood?’

‘Why don’t we finish the job and just go in and kill the Queen? The guards are dead and the palace is at our mercy!’

‘Three reasons, Karney—first, her quarters will be warded by magics cast by her tame magician. Try to get in there and you’ll be trapped until morning. How would that look then, eh?’ he slapped the man’s chest, right over the badge of Duke Gello. ‘Second, if we killed the Queen, suspicion would fall on the Duke, and the nobles might just rally around an alternative that put himself up for King, like Count Sendric. Third, and most important, I say we don’t, and I’ll rip your guts out if you disobey me! Clear?’

Karney, and the other three, quickly nodded, so he waved them inside. He was annoyed but only slightly. Killing the Queen was the course of action he had proposed to Duke Gello. With the Queen dead, the way would be clear for Gello to take the crown, as the next in line to the throne. But the Duke had other ideas.

‘Chelten, I cannot seize the crown! That would lead to all sorts of problems. No, I must be seen to be reluctantly taking on a heavy responsibility because my dear cousin is not up to the job of ruling.’

‘And how will they see she is not up to the task?’ Chelten dared to ask. Normally he would not have been so bold but Gello had to trust him absolutely to tell him this. After all, what they were discussing was treason.

‘She’s a woman! Women can’t rule! It is a fact that should have been obvious years ago but my fellow nobles need something dramatic to prove it to them. When the Dragon Sword is stolen, it will show she cannot keep the country safe and they will turn to me. You, of course, will steal it and take it out of the country. Then we shall have Norstalos, and from there we can crush every country that does not bend to me!’

‘Being killed would also show she couldn’t protect the country,’ Chelten had offered, almost drunk with the thrill of being able to speak to the Duke like this. Besides, he was reluctant to leave the country just when the Duke was seizing power. He wanted to be there for that—and for when the rewards were handed out.

‘It is an attractive idea but her death would create more problems than it would solve,’ Gello sighed. ‘She was ordained by the church, and no doubt they would accuse me of the death. Unfortunately most of the peasants still listen to the blithering of the priests and I don’t need unrest in the villages. What I need are the peasants volunteering their sons for my army of conquest, not muttering about regicide and revolt. Then there are the nobles. I’ve won most of them over to my side and I have them ready to act. As soon as the Dragon Sword is gone they will call for me to take over. But if the Queen is dead there are a few who might bring up the Dragon Sword…’

Gello paused then and even in that intimate atmosphere Chelten knew his master well enough not to say anything. Gello had been the Crown Prince, groomed from birth to be the next King. But then he had been unable to draw the Dragon Sword, meaning he could never take the throne. The disgrace and humiliation had led the Duke to this point. It may have been years ago but it might as well have been yesterday. Chosen for his skill with a blade, Chelten had been assigned to protect the young noble. Chelten, just a few years older than Gello, had idolised the young Duke and King-in-waiting. Both had been devastated when Gello had tried, and failed, to draw the Dragon Sword. But while Chelten was still content to serve the Duke, Gello’s disappointment turned to anger and bitterness, then hatred at the way his cousin would take the throne. A burning desire to take back what he saw as his stolen birthright had launched Gello on this path.

‘No, this is the best way. Having you “discover” the Dragon Sword in another country will be the official end of my cousin and prime the country to invade our neighbours. A glorious future awaits!’

Thinking of that glorious future lightened Chelten’s steps as he led his men in a silent rush through the palace. He had walked this route a score of times during the day. The Dragon Sword was kept on the second floor, in a converted meeting chamber. He led his men up side stairs and along a wide passageway then paused them at a corner. He drew his knives and nodded at his men. This was no time for talking—the last guards would be paces away. They could even hear the pair of them chatting softly; the usual talk of men on boring guard duty—about drink, women and when they would get off the night watch. Chelten signalled to Karney to lead two men into the chamber to take out the guards there. The last man would watch Chelten’s back. It was the way they had planned, although Chelten was supremely confident of taking out two of the Queen’s Royal Guard. Royal Guard! That was a laugh. Royally useless, they were. A pack of peasants, only chosen from King Riel’s old regiment, the Rangers. Thought that put them above everyone else but they would soon find out that was a fatal mistake. He let his anger flower for a moment, then stepped around the corner, already moving into a run, feet silent on the wooden floor in his soft leather shoes.

The two guards looked up, and only had enough time to choose whether to ask a question or fight back. Unfortunately both had become too used to a soft duty and chose to ask what the man in black was doing, rather than focus on the bright knives in his hands. A fatal error.

The other two guards may have been alerted by the noises outside but they had been relaxing, eating a meal at a small table. They had just drawn their swords when Karney burst in and immediately found themselves facing three skilled swordsmen. It only took moments for them to die. Chelten let his men shut the door, drag the bodies away and retrieve his knives. Instead he walked across the room to where the fabled Dragon Sword sat on an elaborate stand in the centre of the room. Even in the dimly-lit chamber, its hilt and scabbard seemed to sparkle, adding both light and lustre to the shadows. He stepped closer and stroked the bejewelled scabbard. It was truly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The leather scabbard felt curiously warm to the touch and he felt his hand drawn towards the elaborate golden hilt. The hilt was the dragon’s body, the pommel its coiled tail, while the wings flared to form the quillons. His hand ached to touch the hilt, to see if he could draw the Sword. He could feel his heart beating faster as his fingers drew near. Another heartbeat and he would be touching it…what if he could be the wielder of the Dragon Sword? It was a thrilling thought. His fingers moved closer, then a warning hiss made him jerk back his hand as if scalded, and he spun to see who had made the noise.

‘Who was that?’ he snapped.

‘Who was what, Sergeant?’ Karney asked for all of them.

Chelten turned to look at the Sword again. Had it…Surely not! He reached out once more, then thought better of it.

‘Bring me a cloak,’ he snapped.

Hands now protected by thick cloth, he took the Sword down and wrapped it up. He was unable to restrain a triumphant smile.

‘Now for the horses. We shall ride to Tetril, hide there for a few weeks, and then return in triumph. We’ll move only at night and stay off the roads. Nothing can stop us now!’

The palace was in an uproar. The bodies had not been discovered until the daily food deliveries had arrived just before dawn. Even then there had been a delay because the deliverymen had run to fetch some militia rather than go inside by themselves, then the militia sergeant had not wanted to walk into the palace without an officer, then the officer had to find a Royal Guard officer, who had to find the Royal Chamberlain to talk to the Queen. The sun had risen before there was enough organisation to send word to close the city gates. And then there was the dispute over who should pursue the invaders. The militia’s responsibility ended at the city gates, while the Royal Guard only had jurisdiction over the palace. Anything beyond that fell to the army, which was commanded by Duke Gello, and his permission had to be sought before messages could be sent to the cavalry regiments to pursue the thieves and murderers.

Queen Merren had been woken by her maids but had been unable to come down to inspect for herself until she had been dressed and her hair styled. Her father had always said that royalty was not allowed to look as though it had just leapt out of bed. It was a frustrating wait and she found herself fighting the urge to scream with anger for the maids to hurry up. There were far more important things than hairstyles going on, yet she knew if she did not walk out looking immaculate, there would be more whispers spread about her.

She forced herself to look in the mirror. She knew she was not the image of a saga princess; her chin was too strong, her nose just a little too long, but she had long blonde hair and green eyes and men always fell over themselves to pay her compliments. Although the things they said behind her back…she sighed and submitted to the efforts of the maids.

Finally she arrived at the gate, to find the militia and the Royal Guard arguing over who should be sent to Duke Gello. Resisting the urge to yell at them and keeping her face impassive, she ordered the militia to send the messages, although she knew it would take most of the morning to find the Duke, then have messengers reach the cavalry. The thieves would be long gone by then. Listening to the conversation quickly showed her there was little more she could do. They were at a loss and she had no desire to listen to excuses from the Royal Guard or apologies from the militia. Besides, as soon as she had seen that the Dragon Sword was gone, she had felt an icy fist close around her heart. Something had to be done and she did not trust these men to achieve anything. Instead she summoned her Royal Magician, Barrett, to a private audience chamber, where she could be sure gossiping servants in the pay of Duke Gello were not going to report what was said…

‘What can you tell me?’ she asked him immediately. Of all the men who served her—or pretended to serve her—she trusted just this one.

Unlike the typical mage, Barrett was relatively young, in his mid thirties, with long dark hair tied back and no hint of the beard that the older wizards seemed to love. Instead of strangely-coloured robes, he preferred to wear tunic and trousers, albeit of a rich purple and green, while his wizard’s staff was plain wood, unadorned with the usual feathers, silver charms and strange bones that often festooned a traditional wizard’s staff. It was a statement in itself. Only someone so talented in the magic arts could so disdain the usual costume of his kind.

‘It was undoubtedly Gello’s men, my Queen,’ Barrett sighed. ‘No ordinary thieves could have gained entry so easily, nor dealt with so many Royal Guards in silence. And who else has so much to gain?’

‘Agreed. So what will happen if I simply accuse him, and demand he submit to the Archbishop of Norstalos, for judgement by Aroaril?’

Barrett looked at her in shock. ‘Accuse the Duke of murder and theft of the country’s greatest treasure? We could try it, but there is no way we could force him to appear before the Archbishop. It would, perhaps, throw some doubt in the minds of ordinary people, but as far as the nobles are concerned, they would not stand for it. The most powerful noble in the land treated like a common criminal without a scrap of evidence? They will clamour for Gello to take over.’

Merren sighed. ‘That is what I feared. So what will he do with it?’

Barrett considered for a second. ‘He has to get it out of the country. With the Dragon Sword gone, the people will be afraid and the nobles will be terrified. It will only be a matter of days before the Duke claims he was asked to step in with the army to maintain the peace. Then some of his men will “find” the Dragon Sword in another country and he has an excuse to lead an invasion. By then he will be King in all but name, and, with the country at war, who will stand in his way when his tame nobles call for him to be anointed as ruler? So what if he cannot draw the Dragon Sword?’

Merren abruptly stood and strode away from the table, her back to Barrett. The wizard could see she was fighting for control—after all, this meant the end of all they had worked for these past three years. But when she turned back, her face was impassive, her voice cold.

‘His next move will be to take control of the palace. He will say if the Royal Guard could not protect the Dragon Sword then it will be abolished, the men sent back to their regiment and he will replace them with soldiers loyal only to him,’ she stated.

‘I would say so, my Queen,’ Barrett admitted.

‘Then I am about to become a prisoner, and Gello will ensure I cannot see anyone who could help me stop him.’

Again, Barrett could not lie to her. ‘That seems most likely, my Queen.’

‘I want you to leave now, while you still can.’

Barrett was horrified. ‘My Queen! I will never leave you! I am sworn to serve you while there is breath or a trace of magic left in my body!’

Merren half-smiled. ‘I know. If I could trust just half of my nobles even half as much as I trust you then we would never have come to this. No, you misunderstand me. You are my last hope. Once Gello moves in here, you will not be allowed near me. So you must get ahead of him. You must try to find the Dragon Sword. Gello would not have sent it south, even he would dread the thought of the Berellians getting their filthy hands on the Sword. No, he will have sent his men to Tetril. It’s small and close—and its army is a joke. You must follow them there and take back the Sword. It is the only thing that could save us.’

Barrett sat down again. ‘I will do whatever you wish. But I do not want to leave you to face Gello without my help.’ He liked to daydream about the Queen, especially about saving her. He often envisaged himself defeating Gello and his henchmen in the throne room, using his extraordinary magical skills to slay the Duke and his tame magicians, and send his flunkies running. By then, of course, he would be near to death from the enormous effort it would take, and he saw himself sprawled, dying, on the throne room floor. The Queen, tears running down her cheeks, knowing he had but moments to live, would embrace him and declare her secret love for him. At that point, of course, he liked to imagine Aroaril, or perhaps even the dragons, would take pity on him and restore him to life, enabling him to take the Queen in his arms. It was a fine dream and one he was unwilling to give up. Even if it did not come to pass, the thought of being seen as the Queen’s last protector, standing firm against Gello and his henchmen, gave him a shiver of delight. Surely she could not help but be impressed to see that? Then he realised she was speaking again.

‘Then do not leave me long. Get the Sword and get back here as fast as you can.’

Barrett hesitated. Even with his formidable talents, he was just one man, and the chance of finding the Dragon Sword when Gello had obviously gone to so much trouble to steal it was slim, at best. But then he saw himself bringing back the Dragon Sword, driving out Gello and restoring an incredibly grateful Queen to the throne. He would take a wound while defeating Gello, nothing too serious, just a cut along the ribs or something that necessitated him taking his shirt off when she insisted on seeing to his wounds personally. He liked that daydream and decided it was even better than his previous favourite. He wanted to make it come true but also wanted to say something that would both comfort her and sum up what it meant to have served as the Queen’s Magician. But he did not have the words and the silence grew.

Finally Merren decided to break it, suspecting Barrett was about to make some declaration she would regret. ‘Go with Aroaril, Barrett. Make sure you come back—that is an order,’ she told him. ‘Hurry. There is much to do and I do not know when Gello might arrive.’

Barrett, unable to think of something clever to say, simply bowed and then hurried out. The home of the Royal Magician was some distance away from the palace and he had a carriage waiting downstairs. He knew he needed to examine some maps and try to get some idea of where the thieves had gone. He was extremely worried about the Queen. He was also horribly aware of the old adage about needles in haystacks. But most distracting of all, he was refining his daydreams about her.

So perhaps it was no surprise that he was too preoccupied to note the men in hooded cloaks who followed when his carriage rumbled out of the gate and headed for his home.

It had been a hugely successful week of trading for the horse salesman Fredden. It had all started when he had sold a gelding for an outrageous five gold pieces! Five gold pieces! The man who was prepared to pay that sort of price—even for a horse that good—had more money than sense! He had, of course, recognised the man but had pretended not to in case he asked for a discount. But he had been quick to tell his customers that the famous Captain Martil only bought his horses from Fredden. This had led to a most profitable week, where he had sold far more of his animals, for far more gold, than he dared hope. In fact he was trying not to attract too much attention as he walked home, his profits from the week wrapped carefully in paper—so they did not clink together—and stuffed down the front of his trews. He was just congratulating himself when a hand reached out of the shadows and hauled him into an alley. He opened his mouth to shout for help when a long knife appeared under his nose.

‘Shout for help and you’ll be dead before the militia can hear it,’ a voice warned him.

‘Wh—what do you want? My purse is here…’ he fumbled for his belt purse, that contained a couple of silvers to appease thieves.

‘I don’t want your money. I want information. You sold a fast horse to a man earlier this week, a man willing to pay a huge price to leave the country. Who was it and where was he going? Tell me or I take your eyes, then your manhood.’

‘It was Captain Martil!’ Fredden gabbled, now thoroughly terrified. ‘He said he wanted to go north, live up on the Norstaline coast! That’s all I know, I swear!’

‘Thank you.’ The knife drove into Fredden’s eye, into his brain and through the skull, scraping on the wall behind him. Cezar lowered the twitching corpse to the ground and took the man’s money to make it look like the work of thieves. He was angry—and afraid. Markuz was going to be furious and Onzalez was going to be disappointed. Cezar was not sure what was worse.

The regular weekly Royal Council meeting was to take place that morning, and Merren knew that was another finger pointing at Gello. Why else would the thieves choose the night before to strike? It had guaranteed the nobles would be asking questions about how the Dragon Sword could possibly have been stolen. The symbol not just of Norstalos, but of peace in Norstalos, was gone. Even those who had been sympathetic towards her would be demanding answers.

Merren walked slowly towards the council chamber, trying to gather her thoughts. This was obviously one of the last moves in an intricate game she and Gello had been playing for years, but which had entered its final phase three years ago, when Merren’s father had died. She paused before a portrait of her father and it took all her self-control not to shout at it. The fool! The stupid, blind fool! To leave her in this situation! It was all his fault!

She knew the reasons, of course, but that did not make it any easier to accept. Kingship in Norstalos was decreed by the Dragon Sword. Every King, all the way back to the celebrated King Riel, had been chosen by the Dragon Sword. Sometimes it ignored sons and chose nephews or cousins; sometimes it skipped up or down a generation. Being able to draw the Dragon Sword was the ultimate arbiter of succession. But no-one had foreseen this—a Queen on the throne. If the Dragon Sword had chosen Merren’s cousin, Duke Gello, then he would have taken the crown. But it had refused him. She could still remember the day.

It had begun as a day of celebration, the time to anoint the next King-in-waiting. Merren had not been particularly enjoying herself, as she found her cousin Gello to be boorish and arrogant at the best of times. The image of him standing in the throne room, tears running down his cheeks as he tugged impotently on the hilt of the Dragon Sword, watched by the cream of Norstaline society, was one she cherished.

Gello had fled the throne room that day—and Merren’s world had changed dramatically.

Her father, King Croft, had seen the looming crisis. Gello had been the last hope. Every other male noble had also been refused. Norstalos would have to enter a period of caretaker rule, until a new generation could be born and, hopefully, one of them accepted by the Sword. So Merren, as the King’s daughter and the highest-ranking noble, must rule until that day. But there were conditions on her rule. She must marry well and produce sons until one of them took the Dragon Sword. Meanwhile she must also find a Champion who could wield the Sword on her behalf to protect Norstalos. For the dragons had warned King Riel that the Sword’s magic would not respond to a woman, it would only recognise a man. It had been a strange condition but, as Croft had liked to say, when dragons are offering you a magic sword, you don’t ask questions. Merren cursed it now, however. How could the dragons be so powerful, and stupid, at the same time? What kind of magic was it, that prevented a woman from using it? She had tried the Sword once, when no-one was looking and her father elsewhere, thinking perhaps it was all a tale by greedy men to keep power for themselves. But it had stayed cold and inert, seemingly frozen in its scabbard. It was so frustrating! She wished she could find out why but nobody could answer.

Ironically it was the very situation that had faced her father. His older sister, Ivene, had been born swiftly but then came years of miscarriages and stillbirths. Not all the prayers of the people, the nobles or even the Archbishop had changed that. Without any male cousins, there were no other options. None of the nobles was able to draw the Sword. It seemed Ivene would have to take the throne as Queen, find a Prince Consort and a Champion to wield the Dragon Sword. Then, with his mother fast approaching the age when she could no longer bear children, Croft had been born. Luckily the Dragon Sword had accepted him, and amid the public celebrations, his sister had had to be content with being named Duchess of Western Norstalos. After years of being groomed to rule the country, this had been a bitter pill for her to swallow. The one thing that had kept this bitterness under control was her son Gello, and her hopes for him to take the throne. Then, to see her son rejected by the Dragon Sword—it had been an enormous blow for them both. Partly as a gesture towards this and partly to solve the crisis of succession, a guilt-ridden King Croft had made a deal with his sister. Merren must take the throne and would immediately begin training for the duty. But Duke Gello would receive unprecedented power. He would control the army, not just while Merren held the throne, but until one of her sons—or his—were chosen by the Dragon Sword.

The result of this deal would mean, for the first time in the history of proud Norstalos, a Queen could sit on the throne. Crucially, however, she would not have control of the army. Only through the goodwill of the nobles—particularly Duke Gello could she maintain her rule.

Merren had found herself wondering how much of this deal was her father’s idea and how much was the Duchess Ivene’s. She suspected the Duchess might have been the one pushing the line that the only way to secure Merren’s rule was to have Duke Gello run the army.

And not only had Gello taken over the army but she had been forbidden from studying the arts of war. While she learned politics, history, economics and law until she was heartily sick of her lessons, the art of military tactics and logistics, how to fight and how to organise an army, were banned topics. Her aunt Ivene saw to that, while Gello was the enthusiastic recipient of lessons from many an experienced soldier. Duchess Ivene had even paid for Berellian veterans of the southern wars to come up and school the young Duke in the arts of battle.

So when King Croft died, it left Merren as Queen but without the power to discipline Gello. He had control of the army, while she had only the militia under her orders. And it swiftly became apparent that while the King had been happy to keep his side of the bargain, Duchess Ivene would not stop until her son was on the throne.

‘This is what your deal has come to, father! If only you were alive to see what a fool they have made of you, and what they are doing to me!’ she hissed up at the painting. She dearly wanted to shout and rage but dreaded the thought of one or more of the nobles catching her in the act. She knew what many of them had said over the years. A woman was not fit to rule. Well, the Dragon Sword had decided none of them were, either—especially her cousin. She despised them all. Again she looked up at the portrait of her father.

‘Why were you so blind?’ she demanded softly.

She heard swift footfalls coming towards her and tried to compose herself, although inside she was raging. If it was a hurrying noble, woe betide him…she saw it was her chief lady-in-waiting, Rana, and subsided a little. Not only was Rana a friend, she was also the daughter of a noble, Count Sendric, the most powerful man in the country’s north.

‘My Queen, the nobles are arriving. They are already asking for you in the main chamber.’

Merren forced a smile to her face. ‘Then let us go and meet these treacherous, small-minded dogs, and give them far more respect than most of them deserve.’

4

The household of the Queen’s Magician came with a score of servants, although Barrett rarely used them. Unlike other Royal Magicians, he never gave parties or used his arts to entertain the nobles. Part of that was because he preferred to study and hone his craft, and part of it was because he was seen as too close to the Queen, so was despised by many at court.

The servants kept his over-large house and garden clean but he strongly suspected several of them were in the pay of Duke Gello, so he told them he would be travelling and would not be back for several days. All seemed rather pleased at the prospect of a few days’ holiday. Just to be on the safe side, he watched them go before searching through his extensive library for maps of eastern Norstalos and Tetril, as well as any other useful information he could find about these areas. It was not easy. Tetril was a small, poor country that was generally accepted to be no threat to anyone. Eastern Norstalos was full of plump farmlands and small towns, with none of the industry of the west and south and no mines like the north, so had little beyond its tax yields to interest city folk.

Still, he had found the location of a royal magician’s lodge near the border, which was useful. Wizards such as he had the power to rapidly travel long distances—but needed time to rest when they arrived. A safe place for that rest was vital. He was just sorting the papers he had found into a bundle—and thinking about taking some provisions with him when someone rang the bell outside his front door. At first he ignored it, because there were servants to get those sorts of things. But when it kept ringing, he remembered he had dismissed his servants. He slammed down the papers and stormed off towards the front door, vowing he would show them what it meant to knock on a wizard’s door uninvited.

He threw open the door, ready to terrify some foolhardy salesman—and found himself face to face with three bearded men in long robes and pointed hats, all clutching staves heavily adorned with silver talismans, feathers and mystic sigils. Even if he had not already known them, their outfits would have screamed ‘wizard’. But he recognised them instantly. The leader was Tellite, one of his former rivals for the position of Queen’s Magician, although he was never a serious contender. Tellite cultivated a long white beard, which someone had carefully plaited. The other two were acolytes of his, Elong and Ackwal. They were typical young mages, puffed up with self-importance and easily impressed by a cheap showman such as Tellite. They were trying to grow beards, to emulate him, but their rather wispy efforts just made them look younger, rather than adding to their status as mages. The brotherhood of magicians was a relatively small one, and most knew each other at least casually. But Barrett knew them well because the three of them were most often referred to as Duke Gello’s wizards.

‘What do you want?’ Barrett demanded, in no mood for a social visit.

Tellite smiled. ‘May we come in? We have a proposition that may interest you.’

Barrett ignored the two acolytes and concentrated on the leader. ‘No.’

Tellite’s face tightened, while the other two shuffled a little nervously.

‘Listen to me, Barrett. You need to come with us to see Duke Gello.’

Barrett stared at him coldly. ‘I will go nowhere with you.’

‘Don’t be a fool, Barrett! The Queen’s days are over! Duke Gello will soon rule this country, and from there the continent and from there, who knows? Come and work for me. The Duke can be a generous man.’

Barrett laughed. ‘He would have to be, to employ a pack of useless finger-wavers like the three of you! But you can tell your precious Duke that I am going away. I will not be in the palace when he comes to depose the Queen.’

Barrett could see that statement shook them, firstly that he was not going to be there, and secondly that he foresaw their purpose.

‘I’m going, so you can reasonably walk back to the Duke and tell him not to worry about me stopping him from becoming a traitor.’ He stared hard at them. ‘Or, you can stay and try to face me.’

Tellite, painfully aware his allies were now shuffling nervously and casting glances back down the long drive towards the street, decided to reassert his authority.

‘By the power vested in me by Duke Gello, I demand you accompany us for questioning over the theft of the Dragon Sword,’ he snapped. ‘If you refuse, it will go badly for you.’

‘Badly for me?’ Barrett smiled thinly.

Tellite cleared his throat. ‘Be reasonable, man! You don’t even have your staff with you!’

Barrett’s smile stayed in place but his voice was cold. ‘The fact you think I need a staff shows why you were never going to be the Queen’s Magician,’ he told him, then clenched his fist.

Instantly, the tall plants on either side of the doorway exploded into growth, tripling and quadrupling in size in a heartbeat, thick branches reaching towards the trio of wizards.

‘Get him or we’re all dead!’ Tellite screamed, just before a thick bundle of leaves shoved themselves into his mouth.

But Elong and Ackwal were swamped under a mass of greenery, picked up and slammed into the hard stone pathway.

Tellite, however, was powered by desperation. Swiftly the plants around him died back, and he leapt away, soaring high in the air. The effort he was expending was obvious—his lips were drawn back in a grimace and sheets of sweat were flying from his face.

Barrett, lightly sweating, brought up both hands and sent Tellite cartwheeling away across the garden. The older wizard managed to control his landing and spun, jabbing his staff back at Barrett. Insects roared out of trees and bushes, or crawled out of the ground, and flew or ran at Barrett, who was breathing harder now as he sent them scurrying back away. Surely Tellite was going to give up soon? He would be exhausted by his efforts so far. But one glance at Tellite told a different story. Wizards used their strength to summon natural magic; when a wizard was exhausted, they stopped to rest. But Tellite was not going to stop, although he was gasping for breath.

Sending a swarm of bees flying back to their nest, Barrett jumped at Tellite, using his magic to propel himself fifteen feet at a time. Two jumps and he was on top of the other wizard, who snarled, showing long teeth in shrunken gums, then ignited his whole staff this time, swinging the weapon at Barrett’s head, using the magic to speed up his blows.

Barrett had to reach into the magic himself, to spring backwards and away to avoid the attack, but Tellite chased him, swinging wildly. Desperately, Barrett grabbed Elong’s fallen staff and copied Tellite’s technique, increasing it in size and using magic to strengthen his arms. He traded blows with the berserk wizard, unsure how much longer the man could last. Tellite looked almost skeletal now, his flesh burning off in his crazed attempt to keep the magic flowing. Barrett had heard of cases like this before, of mages so caught up in the use of magic that they were unable to stop until it had drained every last spark of life from them. If he had the energy, he would have found this fascinating: how far a wizard could propel himself down the path of death before the magic ran out. But he could feel his own strength draining away. His breath was coming harsh and fast and sweat was now dripping into his eyes. He was also conscious of how much else he had to do that day. It would serve his Queen little if he defeated Tellite but failed in his mission to find the Dragon Sword. He had to end this. He doubled the size of the staff he held until it resembled the trunk of a small tree, then smashed it at Tellite’s head.

The crazed mage blocked the first blow, then a second, but was knocked back by the force of the impact.

‘You’re coming with me!’ he screamed, eyes unnaturally bright in a sunken face.

He raised his arms to the skies, his beard and robes beginning to whip around him as wind and dark clouds began to swirl above him.

Barrett stared at him in horror for a moment, unable to believe the man would really go so far as to try and summon a giant electrical storm. Weather magic was the hardest to master, and the most dangerous. Since it was usually the preserve of the priests, most wizards were happy to avoid it. It took an enormous toll on the body, because of the disruption not only to the local weather but also to the weather across the continent. But Tellite was obviously not thinking rationally. Instead he was trying to create a huge thunderstorm concentrated on this one spot. If he succeeded, the house and anyone near it would be destroyed by a massive bombardment of lightning. Barrett wasted precious time thinking about that before he reached into the magic and tried to break apart the storm.

But once started, such a storm could not be easily dismissed, and Tellite was laughing now as dark clouds spun across the sky at his bidding. The wind was whipping through the garden, gusting hard, and Barrett had to dig deep as he fought to break apart the clouds and force the storm away.

‘You cannot stop me!’ Tellite screamed, his eyes triumphant, as he swung hands like claws at the sky.

Barrett saved his energy for what he was doing, although the effort was beginning to tell on him as well. Despite his best efforts, the clouds were growing thicker, and an ominous rumble of thunder in the distance warned them both of what was to come. Gritting his teeth, Barrett concentrated on the main cloud mass, urging it to dissipate. For long moments, nothing seemed to happen; Barrett risked a glance at Tellite to see he was also concentrating on the clouds, seeking to keep them together. Then the huge cloudbank seemed to blow apart, scattering across the sky.

‘No! Come back!’ Tellite screamed. Raising his hands to the sky, he jerked suddenly, actually lifted off the ground slightly, then collapsed in a heap.

A little spatter of rain fell, then the clouds dissipated and the sun came out once more.

Barrett ignored that, as he leaned on his borrowed staff and sucked in air. His legs were trembling and his stomach was growling. He knew he needed to eat and rest—and swiftly—but he wanted to check on his foe first. Cautiously he used the borrowed staff to flip Tellite over—and almost recoiled in horror. The man was nothing but skin stretched over bones. His fingers were twisted into claws and his mouth was open, as if for one last defiant cry. He was obviously dead, the magic having consumed him. Barrett shuddered and turned away. How frightened had he been of the Duke, to drive himself beyond the limits of his body? Still, he had achieved something. Barrett was exhausted. He hurried inside, careful to magically lock the door. Hopefully the still-entangled Elong and Ackwal would come to their senses, see the body of Tellite, then rush back to the Duke to report that Barrett was gone. If not, then he would have to deal with them. Whatever they did, he knew he had little time. As soon as he realised his tame wizards had failed, Gello would send other men to stop him. The Duke could not let someone as powerful as Barrett wander around the capital. He rushed through to the kitchen. He ate fast, always with one ear out for more of Gello’s men, until he could no longer stand the feeling that they were about to burst into his house. He had to go. He grabbed his papers, staff, a waterskin and a last hunk of cheese and walked out the rear door. Tired though he was, he still took the time to cast a series of magical traps on the ground at the back of his house. If anyone came this way, he wanted to know about it. Especially as his secret escape route was hidden at the back of his huge garden.

Years ago, wizards had discovered how to use oak trees to move great distances. It was a complicated and exhausting use of magic. Somehow the oak knew the location of other oak trees—Barrett believed it was due to the way the trees propagated themselves. Careful study had shown there were he-oaks and she-oaks and they needed to know where the next one was so they could fertilise each other. Combining that with an ability found in some birds, such as pigeons, which could find their way across country they had never seen before, it allowed a wizard to step into one tree and emerge at the next nearest oak tree, be it feet or even miles away. The first attempts, like all new magic, had been fraught with danger and required the mage to both commune with the tree, and with birds, before attempting it. But once the theory had been mastered, and taught, it had been refined to the point that Barrett had reached. By stringing these steps together, he could actually travel from Norstalos City to the far east of the country in a matter of heartbeats. But this travel came at a price—he would be exhausted when he arrived, as if he had walked that same distance.

Although researching plant and animal behaviour and how that could be reproduced magically had taken up much of Barrett’s training as a wizard, an equally large amount had been devoted to discovering the limits of his power and, more importantly, his strength. His relative youth and fitness was one reason why he was such an accomplished wizard. Older men had the knowledge but lacked the strength to tackle great feats of magic. Through hard work and study, he had amassed knowledge while still being strong enough to put it to use. Still, he had just had a graphic demonstration of what could happen to a wizard who went beyond his own strength. As if he needed any more. His own master, a former royal magician, had died attempting to push himself beyond his limits, just five years ago. This journey was as long as any he had undertaken and he was a little apprehensive. But his daydream about returning to the Queen drove him onwards.

His oak tree was hidden behind several other trees, for even wizards as pitiful as the unconscious Elong and Ackwal would instantly understand this was his method of moving to and from the city, and have it watched or cut down.

Cautiously he moved to the tree and touched the bark. His breathing was normal, and he no longer felt hungry or thirsty, but he could feel the tiredness in his muscles. He was aching all over and normally would have slept for the rest of the day before attempting this. But there was no time, so he deliberately put aside his aches. Taking a deep breath, he reached out into the magic, becoming one with the tree. Holding onto the feeling of this tree, he sent out his mind, darting to the next oak tree, which was in a park on the outskirts of the city. Carefully he gathered the impression of that tree, and leapt to the next, which was outside the city walls.

He kept travelling from tree to tree, lining them up one by one in his mind, keeping in place the exact order in which he had to travel, like so many doors through which he had to pass. Further and further he went, until he could feel the impression of the trees straining at his mind, struggling to break free of the careful order. This was the most dangerous time. Just miss one of these steps and a wizard would be forever trapped in the journey, lost in their own mind. It was difficult, it was frightening, but Barrett loved it. This was where he liked to be, out on the edges of magic, testing the limits of both his mind and his body. This was what made him the greatest wizard in the country, perhaps the world. Others would seek to break the journey up, to minimise the risk, but he drove himself on, gathering a seemingly endless array of trees, until he came to a last one, near the border of Tetril and close to the Royal Magician’s lodge that he could use to recover.

Now his mind had made the trip, all he had to do was open the way for his body to follow. The process had taken only a few heartbeats and he was prepared to travel halfway across the country. Keeping the way open with his mind, he stepped into where the first tree should be—and walked through it, then through every other tree in the same instant, before stepping out on the other side, near the Tetran border. The effort of such a journey hit him a heartbeat later, driving him to his knees, so he was forced to haul himself up on his staff. He just had the energy to smile in triumph. He had done it, he was ahead of the thieves! All he had to do was rest for a day or so, then he could intercept them. He guzzled down water and then stuffed the cheese into his mouth, as his body was crying out for food and drink. There would be more supplies in the lodge, he knew. He just had to get there.

He began to stagger down the path towards the lodge and it was then the first tendril of fear touched him. He could feel his energy draining away with each pace. He had never felt this exhausted before and, unbidden, an image of Tellite, all twisted skin and bone, sprang into his mind.

‘I am strong!’ he told himself, although it was all he could do to summon the energy to open the place up and collapse onto a bed.

As he lay there, fighting to get his breath back, he knew the reality was different to his brave words. The way he felt, it was going to be days before he was ready to search. Tellite may have died, but he had done Duke Gello sterling service that day, he reflected bitterly.

Queen Merren was infuriated by the paltry number of nobles who had turned up for the council. Many were missing—and most of those were the ones she normally thought of as, if not her supporters, then at least opponents of Duke Gello, which was nearly as good. In fact, as she counted the ones around the table, it seemed as if there were only just enough to form a quorum. This was ridiculous, given the events of the night before. It also meant these men could force through anything Gello wanted them to. A vote on an issue by the Royal Council was not binding on her; she could still decree exactly the opposite of what they wanted. But without the support of the nobles, the ruler of Norstalos would have nobody to enforce the laws and decrees. And without an army, she had nothing to use as persuasion for the nobles.

She forced down her disquiet and concentrated on the discussion which, naturally, was of the Dragon Sword and its theft.

‘I find it extremely concerning that thieves could get into the palace, kill the guards, steal the Dragon Sword and escape! If the palace is not safe, then nowhere is safe. I think we need to call the army in to provide some security.’ The plumply perspiring Count Cessor, whose lands took in the large western town of Cessor, made the opening declaration. Norstaline nobles had adopted the habit of being called by their title. Therefore the man addressing the Royal Council was known as Count Cessor, the thirty-fourth heir to a noble title, rather than plain old Gaven Ildale from Cessor.

Merren stared at him with distaste. As a western noble, Cessor fawned over Duke Gello, and Merren knew he had been angling for one of his three daughters to marry the Duke. Anything Cessor said was as good as hearing it out of Gello’s own mouth. In the first few months of her rule she had tried to be accommodating and civil to these men, but as the months passed and they all but openly declared their allegiance to Gello, she lost patience with the polite approach.

‘Really? Throw away centuries of tradition and terrify the country by having soldiers search through streets for men who are long gone? This is the sort of ridiculous suggestion I would expect from someone whose head is as fat as their body,’ she said icily.

Cessor, whose appetite for sweets was legendary, shook with anger, his chins wobbling.

‘But, your majesty, the point is we do not have the Dragon Sword any longer. For centuries we have been told it has been the guarantee of peace in our beautiful land. Without it, we could even sink back to the level of other countries. Surely it would be prudent to bring the army in now, rather than wait until it was too late?’

This time the speaker was the oily Earl Worick, another western noble and another protégé of Gello’s. Small, thin and impeccably groomed, he annoyed her even more than the gross Cessor.

‘Do you have such a low opinion of the people, dear Worick?’ Merren smiled thinly. ‘Do you honestly believe that the only thing stopping the ordinary citizens of this proud land from killing each other is the presence of the Dragon Sword? Have I not heard you, and many others around this table, speak of how Norstalos is the greatest of all countries, how everyone else can only dream of being like ourselves?’

She looked around the table triumphantly then sighed. From their closed-off faces, it was obvious that any words she spoke were going to fall on deaf ears. This was clearly a charade, set up by Gello. He had somehow managed to ensure all his opponents were away from this meeting, then advised his favourites what to do and say. There was to be no debate, she realised. They were going to issue a call for the army to come in, and beg Duke Gello to do what he wanted—take over the running of the country. Oh, they would dress it up with fine words like ‘for the duration’ and ‘only as long as necessary’ but these would just be fancy lies. She ignored the next speaker’s words, letting them wash over her.

She realised with a jolt that this was the finish. By the end of the day she would be a prisoner in this palace, and Gello would have won. Only a miracle could save her now. True, she had sent out Barrett, but the wizard was just one man. What could he do alone?

The thought of giving up the throne was like a dagger to the heart. There were so many things she wanted to achieve as Queen but all she had had time for was struggling to keep her throne. It was galling. After that fateful day, when Gello had fled the throne room in disgrace, leaving the Dragon Sword, she had known her destiny was to rule as Queen. The first Queen of Norstalos. It had become her obsession. Despite what the terms of the deal between King Croft and Duchess Ivene said, and despite what her father clearly thought, both Merren and Gello had known there would be only one victor. Norstalos could only have one ruler, not two. This was the culmination of that battle. One she now knew she was going to lose, and she could not bear it.

Abruptly she stood, and Count Cessor, who had been noisily declaiming that Norstalos was now in a state of emergency and, unless the army was brought in, would descend into chaos, petered out to an embarrassed silence.

‘Your majesty?’ Worick prompted.

‘I will not waste another moment of my time on a bunch of Gello’s lapdogs,’ she declared. ‘I know what you plan to do and I have no intention of being part of this ridiculous charade a moment longer. Issue the decree your master wants, then run back to him and grovel, in the hope he gives you a pat on the head for a job well done.’

‘Your majesty, I must protest!’ Cessor cried.

‘Protest all you like, you fat fool. Aroaril will be the final judge of what you do here. May He have mercy on your rotten souls because, believe me, I will send them to Zorva if I get the chance.’ She spat the words at him, then stormed out of the chamber, enjoying their shocked looks, although she knew this was but a feather to balance against the lead weight of Gello’s scheming victory. Slowly she walked back to her apartments. She thought she might as well try and enjoy her last moments as Queen, so ordered food and drink and musicians, called for her ladies-in-waiting and even thought about ordering a bard to come and perform. But she could not relax. Her stomach was churning, the food was like ashes in her mouth and the music discordant to her ears.

She did not have long to wait. The musicians were only into their second tune when a commotion outside grew so loud that they missed their place. Her ladies-in-waiting gazed at the Queen as the sounds of shouts, trumpets and hooves echoed around the room, so she sent Rana to see what was happening.

‘My Queen! The palace is surrounded by cavalry!’ Rana called.

Merren felt her heart jump. So fast! Gello must have had them ready. She walked carefully out onto the balcony and looked down. Her remaining Royal Guards had blocked the gate, but were faced by more than a company of heavy cavalry. At their head was an unmistakeable figure. Duke Gello.

‘By the authority of the Royal Council, I have been asked to step in, on an interim basis, until this crisis has passed,’ he was bellowing. ‘Here is the official decree. As soldiers of Norstalos first, and Royal Guards second, you are hereby ordered to disband and return to your regiment. My men will be responsible for the security of the palace, and indeed the country.’

Merren wondered for a moment if her Royal Guards were going to defy Gello, but they were massively outnumbered and would have been slaughtered. Not that she really expected them to die for her, but she felt it would have meant something if they had been so infuriated by Gello’s treachery that they had tried to stop him. She wanted to shout out to them, ‘This is the man who had your friends killed last night!’ But even as she toyed with that thought, she saw the commander of the Royal Guard, Captain Kay, order the men to take off their official surcoats and swords, and lay them in a pile in the courtyard.

Merren looked out towards the plaza, where a score of townsfolk were watching the scene, obviously curious but hardly distraught at the overthrow of their monarch. Where were the crowds of outraged citizens? Where were the guards who would rather die than desert their Queen? She wanted to ask why that was, but could not find the words. Her ladies-in-waiting clustered about her, all unable to say anything. None reached out to comfort her. She would have liked them to, although she would have thrown off their hands, for she did not want to appear weak.

Just as she thought that, Duke Gello looked up—and even from this distance, Merren could see his triumphant smirk. How she longed to see him humbled!

‘May Aroaril help me. Find me a Champion who can wipe that smile off your face,’ she swore.

Wollin was a long ride from Chell, and it was made far longer by Karia. She knew Martil did not want her to be with him but that was fine, she did not want to be with him either. She wanted to be back with Father Nott. Of course Father had said she could not stay with him, but that was just silly. He was the best person to stay with and far nicer than Martil or her da and brothers. So the solution was easy. Just make things as difficult as she could and Martil would take her back to Father Nott. She had tried this technique on her da but he had just hit her until she stopped. This Martil had promised never to hit her. Unless he changed, she was going to annoy him until he gave in and took her back. Asking for food seemed to infuriate him, so she did it as often as possible. Her stomach, unused to all this food, seemed to require plenty of toilet stops, and they seemed to annoy him too. It was actually quite fun to do this, see how far she could push him. Every time he seemed to be getting angry, he managed to get himself back under control, although she could hear him muttering what Father Nott had told her were square words. The only problem was, nothing she did was making Martil turn around his horse and ride back to Chell and Father Nott. So she decided to try harder. She was curious about everything she saw, so it was a natural progression to start asking questions.

Martil ground his teeth until he was sure they would break. His frustration had risen with every toilet stop, with every demand for food or drink, but he felt he could handle that. Now she was breaking these up with questions about the plants they saw, the few birds they heard and the animals she wanted to see but which refused to show themselves.

In the quiet of his head, he resolved not to be beaten by her. If the Berellians could not break him, then this small girl would not succeed. Whatever she tried, he would not lose his temper and let her win. He would not give her that satisfaction. Once he had reduced the problem to a contest, he felt more comfortable with it. But the problem remained. How to win it?

He could not help but feel envious of Father Nott, of the way he had been able to handle Karia so easily. He thought a clever thing to do would be to try to give her something to look forward to.

‘We’ll be arriving at a big town soon. When we’re there, we’ll buy you some clothes and nice things. Then we’ll get a big meal, as much as you can possibly eat. So you should think about the sort of clothes you would like, and the sort of food you might want to eat. Would you like that?’

‘Can we go back to Father Nott afterwards?’

‘No,’ said Martil, for what he felt was the twentieth time.

‘I hate you.’

With these sorts of conversations, Martil was delighted to finally arrive at Wollin. Chell had been a small village but Wollin served not just Chell but several other villages, as well as a number of farms within a day’s ride of its walls. It was a market town, so although it had a wall around it, it was a fairly flimsy affair, which offended Martil in its poor design and lack of height. But he was more concerned with how Karia would react once they were inside.

The man known as War Captain Rowran loved to sail. Even when he had been in the army, fighting in the mountains, he had dreamed of the sea. It was somehow calming, and he had found himself going for longer and longer trips since he had returned from the war. Out of sight of land, away from people, his problems just seemed to disappear.

That day had been a bad one. He had been having a quiet drink in a tavern and looking forward to an afternoon of sagas when the bard started the show by announcing that War Captain Macord had killed himself, burned himself to death in his own house, so instead of the planned program, he would do a series of sagas about the war and finish with the Song of Bellic. Rowran could feel every eye in the tavern turn to him. He knew he had to get out—and fast.

By the time he made it to his boat, he just wanted to get away from everyone and everything. So he made the fatal mistake of not checking in the boat’s small cabin before hoisting the sail and heading out of the harbour.

Cezar steered Rowran’s boat into a small cove under cover of darkness. The body had gone over the side—except for the heart, which was in its special box, inside a small pack he wore over his shoulder. He planned to ram the boat into some rocks and leave it there for the locals to find the next day. No doubt they would conclude that Rowran had fallen overboard. Now for Captain Oscarl, as Markuz and Onzalez felt Oscarl was the greater threat to Berellia’s ambition and the Fearpriest’s vision. Then he could hunt Captain Martil down at his leisure.

Karia had never been to Wollin. And as she had spent the past few months living in a forest the noise, the smells and the bustle of the town made her forget about tormenting Martil. She was used to seeing a few sheep or cows. But here, the road was taken up by huge flocks and herds of them, forcing Martil to ride right around them. Crates of chickens clucked on top of wagons; other wagons rolled along piled with hay, fruit, vegetables and other foods the area provided. She watched, fascinated, as Martil steered them around and past the farmers, and towards the gate.

The wall towered above, while the noise of the city made her dig her fingers into Tomon’s mane for comfort.

‘And what is that smell?’ she demanded, holding her nose as they rode into the main street.

Martil explained it was the smell of a town, of thousands of people all living close to each other, the smell of their waste as well as that of the various animals that lived with them.

‘It’s disgusting! How can they live like this?’ She tried to breathe through her mouth.

Martil refrained from adding that the old dustcloth dress she was wearing was far from pleasant, although the bath she had had seemed to have removed the worst of her smell.

For Karia, the town was just too much of everything. Her eyes, her ears and especially her nose struggled to take it all in. Well-dressed men and women walked together, their clothes far richer than anything she had seen before. Labourers and servants hurried past, on their way to serve others. Stallholders bellowed out their wares, while carriages rattled past.

They made her nervous and, strangely, knowing Martil was there made her feel a little better as shopkeepers yelled up at them, desperate for their business. She told herself it was because Father Nott had liked him, so he could not be as bad as her da, even though he wouldn’t take her back to Father.

Martil was amused by the way the town had first quietened her, then made her move back in the saddle so she was actually leaning into him, as if he was protecting her. It was certainly much better than when she was yelling, or trying to hit him. He racked his brain for something to say to exploit this but she saved him the trouble.

‘Why are all these people here? What are they doing?’ she wanted to know.

‘Well, some live here, and some are here to sell their goods. They all need to eat, and there’s nowhere to grow anything in a town, so food has to come here. It is also sold here, and sent to even bigger towns.’

She nodded, wide-eyed. In truth it was not too busy, there was plenty of room on the cobbled streets, and he rarely had to check Tomon to avoid someone in front of him. But she was obviously fascinated by the bustle and the colour. She gaped at the women’s dresses, while Martil enjoyed the respite from questions.

‘Here we are,’ Martil said, spotting the sign of the one shopkeeper he had been looking for.

He rode Tomon across the street and then climbed down, tying the reins tightly to a hitching post in front of the store.

‘Where are we?’ Karia asked as he lifted her down. He half-expected her to run or scream, but the unfamiliar town was having its effect on her and she was trying to stay as close as possible to him. She may hate me, but I’m less scary to her than a bunch of fat merchants, he mused.

‘We’re at a dressmaker’s. And we’re going to get you some clothes. Come on.’

He guided her past two well-dressed women and a servant who staggered behind them, his arms laden with goods, and into the shop.

Menner was proud to boast that he was the finest dressmaker in Wollin. Of course, the fact there were only three dressmakers in the town, and the other two were run by old women who had never been to Norstalos City, let alone designed fine outfits for the gentry, was one he did not add to the story.

He would have liked to stay in Norstalos City but the truth was, he was an even better gossip than he was a dressmaker. And after he had repeated a couple of salacious stories about Duke Gello, he had received a visit from some of the Duke’s personal guard, who were not interested in the latest colours and styles of doublet but were happy to inform him he would find himself wearing his own entrails for a necklace if he did not leave the city by the end of the week.

Wollin was the town furthest from the Duke’s western lands, and he had found a profitable business here, selling clothes and dresses to the wives of rich farmers and merchants. The standard of gossip, however, was sadly lacking. He had just sold two dresses to one of his regulars when the bell rang and an interesting pair walked into his shop. A warrior and his daughter, by the looks of it. The man was obviously a Ralloran, judging by his tunic and trousers, while the girl was wearing…Menner shuddered. It looked like an old rag. Still, the man was wearing two swords, so it paid to be polite.

‘Welcome to Menner’s! How can I help you?’ He stepped out from behind his counter, letting them see how he was dressed in the latest fashion from the city, a bright yellow tunic, with puffed sleeves and a low collar, over orange trousers.

Karia stared at him, open-mouthed.

‘We need clothes for a girl,’ Martil announced.

Menner took the fabric of Karia’s tunic between finger and thumb and almost recoiled in horror before recovering swiftly. ‘My dear sir, you have come to the right place! We can have her dressed in the latest fabrics, and the latest fashions!’

‘She’s not going to meet your Queen. I need two pairs of tunics and trews and three simple dresses. One pair of warm shoes, one pair of leather shoes and one pair of sandals,’ Martil growled. Karia, meanwhile, was trying to hide behind one of his legs, peeping up at the strangely-dressed man whenever she thought he was not looking at her.

Menner smiled. ‘Of course we can do that for you, but so much, it will take time, and there will be a need for a deposit…’

Martil had no intention of spending any more time in Wollin than was absolutely necessary. He produced a thick gold coin and tossed it idly into the air. ‘I need them by tomorrow.’

‘While I wish we could help, it simply cannot be done.’

A second gold coin joined the first and Menner’s smile became, impossibly, even more broad.

‘Well, for a special customer such as yourself, we can always make an exception. Let me take some measurements. But before I start, perhaps I can offer you a drink? You have ridden a long way, no doubt?’

‘A drink. And something for the girl to eat,’ Martil agreed.

Menner hurried off into a backroom, returning a moment later with a small plate of cakes, a jug of fruit juice and two goblets. Karia was still not sure about someone dressed like this but could not entirely hide her interest in the food.

Menner passed her a goblet of juice and smiled as she took a long gulp.

‘Thirsty work, shopping, is it not?’ he smiled.

She said nothing, just watched him warily and took one of the small cakes.

‘Say thank you,’ Martil prompted, but she just shrank away from both of them.

‘There’s no need. A little girl like that, bound to be shy.’ Menner smiled, then produced a small chalkboard and several lengths of thin rope marked with knots at regular intervals. ‘Could you hold out your arm for me, please?’

Karia obviously had no intention of doing so. Martil could see a wrestling bout or, worse, a screaming match approaching, but had no idea of how to stop it.

Menner did. He had designed clothes for many small girls, in fact he saw it as a lucrative and essential part of his business. Get them used to buying his clothes young and they would come back for the rest of their lives.

‘Would you like a nice doll to play with?’ he asked with a smile.

Karia could not help but be intrigued, and even gave a little smile in return. Menner opened a cupboard and took out a simple woollen doll wearing a dress. He sat down on the floor and offered it to Karia, smiling as she almost snatched it from his hand. ‘She’s yours now. What will you call her?’

Karia looked down at the doll with delight. ‘Mine?’

‘As long as you hold out your arm and let me see how big I need to make your dresses,’ Menner said gently.

Karia did not need to think about that for too long. She flung her arm out instantly as she cradled the doll. It had a bright smile, stitched in wool. Her old dolls were long gone but she decided this one would be a special friend.

‘Her name is Dolly,’ she announced, holding out her other arm towards Menner.

He finished his measuring quickly and looked at the figures on his board while Karia tucked into the cakes.

‘I do believe I have a sample dress I could let you have now,’ he offered.

‘What will we do with this?’ Karia exclaimed, plucking at the tunic.

‘We could give it to a beggar, young miss, but I fear even they have certain standards,’ Menner said seriously. ‘The only thing that would want that dress is a large fire. I’ll be right back.’

‘He’s funny,’ Karia announced as Menner disappeared into the backroom.

Martil gave a smile. It had been interesting to see how this Menner had won Karia over, using a combination of bribery, diversions and small jokes.

Menner returned with a pale pink dress, simply cut, with no adornments, but it was obviously clean and that made it perfect in Martil’s view.

‘You may change in here,’ Menner offered, pulling a curtain out and around a circular wooden pole to create an instant small room at the side of the shop.

Karia may have been unsure about the dressmaker but she loved the dress, and simply pulled the old tunic over her head and held out her hand for the dress.

‘Aroaril’s beard! Young miss, the changing room…’ Menner gasped at her but she simply took the dress from his hand.

‘Farm girl.’ Martil tried to shrug off his embarrassment. He would have to explain to her again about the importance of privacy and decency, he realised as he quickly turned to look out the window. Whether she would listen was, of course, another matter.

‘How does it look? Am I pretty?’ Karia asked, as she wriggled into the dress.

Menner recovered his composure and rushed off to return with a large mirror, which she used to admire herself.

‘It looks lovely,’ he assured her. ‘Now all that remains is to choose colours and leave the deposit…’

Martil led Karia out of the shop feeling he had probably paid three times as much as the clothes were worth, but the time he had saved and what he had learned made the purchases worthwhile. If he could handle her mood swings, the journey to Thest would be a little less unpleasant. He was beginning to see this almost as a military campaign. Diversionary tactics worked well here, too.

Karia said nothing, because her mouth was full of the large sugary confection Menner had handed her as they left. Martil had no idea about the right colours a small child should be wearing, so had let Karia pick. Her selection of pinks and purples was immaterial—as long as the clothes did not smell, that was fine by him.

For her part, Karia was too busy looking at Dolly and admiring her new dress to pay more than a few glances to the bustle around them. Menner had recommended an inn, the Crown and Sparrow, which was nearby. In the absence of a better plan, Martil rode there. He felt he was doing that quite a bit lately, just going along with what seemed to be a good idea at the time. Still, it worked out all right in this case; he was not sure what to expect but it proved to be a large, three-storey building that dominated the street. He rode around the back, where a huge stable and courtyard stretched out to the road behind. Not just horses but carriages were kept here, tended by a score of young boys.

Martil wheeled Tomon under the main gate, then reined the horse in as a pair of large men in leather jerkins stepped out, both carrying lead-tipped staves.

‘State your business,’ one declared in a bored voice.

‘A room for myself and the girl, stabling and feed for the horse,’ Martil replied harshly.

‘Hold on, I know that voice!’ the other man exclaimed. ‘Captain Martil, as I live and breathe!’

‘By the beard of Aroaril, so it is! The other boys’ll be jealous we met you!’ the first man gasped.

Martil could not help but smile then, hearing their accents. ‘What are you boys doing so far from Rallora?’

‘Well. It’s a fair bit easier than guard duty with a regiment of Berellian Guards over the next ridge,’ the first man grinned, then his smile faded. ‘And there are too many memories down there.’

The three of them paused then, lost in what that phrase recalled. The guards recovered first. ‘Go on in, Captain. Just flash a bit of gold and the boys’ll come running. But if you don’t mind, we’d like to shake your hand first.’

Martil took their hands in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist, feeling a little sheepish, then rode past them until a stableboy came running over.

‘We need a room for the night,’ he announced, holding up a gold piece.

‘I’ll get the boss,’ the boy said immediately, and scampered off.

‘Why do people do things for you?’ asked Karia.

‘Because I have gold. People do things for gold.’ Martil shrugged, not wanting to go into his past history with Ralloran soldiers.

‘Da thought people would do things for him if he threatened to hurt them. I like gold better,’ Karia said solemnly.

5

The throne room was full; scores of army officers and nobles milling around, talking quietly. Why had King Markuz summoned them here in the middle of the day and why was every window covered with metal shutters? Earl Byrez, who had ridden from his northern castle to reach this meeting, wondered what this meant.

‘The King!’ a servant bellowed and the room fell silent instantly.

Markuz strode over to his throne, but did not sit down.

‘Berellia will rise again!’ he roared.

Immediately the officers erupted into cheers, although Byrez noted that many of the nobles, such as himself, were a little less enthusiastic.

‘Already one of the Butchers of Bellic is dead! The other four will follow soon enough! Soon their black hearts will be paraded around the country for all to see!’

This time all cheered.

‘And we shall finally achieve all we deserve! Not in Rallora but by ruling Norstalos!’ Markuz continued.

This time the cheering was isolated; even the youngest officer knew such a thing was impossible.

‘My friends, this is true. Norstalos will ask us for help. Together, as partners, we shall rule this world although there will only be one eventual ruler!’

Scattered applause and confused murmuring met those words and Byrez saw his King’s face tighten in anger.

‘But if we are to finally achieve our destiny, we need more men. I order you to begin recruiting again. Train me a new army, so that we might lead it to victory once more!’

Silence greeted those words, and Byrez felt his legs move.

‘Sire, how can this be possible?’ he asked. ‘Our forces are a shadow of the army that marched south. If we attack Norstalos, then the very existence of Berellia will be in doubt!’

Byrez glanced left and right, and saw many heads nodding agreement. He was not watching them; he was looking for Cezar. Surely the King’s Champion would be paying him a visit soon…

But Markuz merely held out his hands for quiet.

‘This time it will be different. This time we shall be victorious! For we have divine help!’

He gestured and a robed and cowled figure stepped forwards into the light.

Byrez let out a gasp of horror and grabbed at where his sword should have been—if he had not surrendered it to the King’s guards already.

‘A Fearpriest! We are to ally ourselves to such as that?’ he cried.

‘We already have,’ Markuz said coldly. ‘Aroaril deserted us. He defeated us in Rallora! Only divine intervention could have stopped us there. Then we were betrayed and stabbed in the back by traitors back home. Glorious Berellia has become polluted, corrupted, weak. With the help of Brother Onzalez we shall burn out this corruption, forge a pure new society and take our rightful place as rulers of the world! Any who do not want to join must be seen as traitors. For all true Berellians would want to see their fatherland great again.’

‘My friends, turning to Zorva is not the answer! Do not stand by and let evil take hold of our country!’ Byrez appealed.

‘If you are not with us, you are against Berellia. Anyone who does not want to share in the glorious future that awaits Berellia can leave now!’ Markuz roared.

Byrez knew that to do so was a death sentence; he also knew that there were some things worse than death. With a stare around the room—none would meet his eyes—he stalked out, shutting the doors behind him. He half-expected to meet his death on the other side, but apart from the usual guards, nobody tried to stop him. Byrez decided to ride for home immediately, hoping he’d reach it.

Markuz stared around the other nobles and officers. None followed the Earl but many watched him go.

‘Tell Cezar to get back here as quickly as possible,’ Markuz told Onzalez out of the side of his mouth, before waving his arms again.

‘Gather round, my friends, and hear how we shall have our final victory!’

Kettering had just about got his hair right when one of the stableboys came running into his office. As under-manager of the Crown and Sparrow, Kettering was responsible for the dining room and sleeping rooms. The bar was the over-manager’s responsibility, ever since Kettering’s little incident with the two Avish warriors and his hair. But Kettering felt most of the town seemed to have forgotten about that by now. Still, he liked to make sure his hair looked its best, so he used the special salve the apothecary had given him to keep it in place across his scalp once he had curled it over the top from where it hung long beside each ear.

‘Guests, sir, with gold,’ the stableboy blurted.

His hair was not quite as neat as he would have liked, but gold was too important to ignore, so he followed the liveried stableboy out to the yard, where a warrior and his daughter sat on a magnificent horse. The man looked like a brute, with his scars, his cold grey eyes and his two swords, while his daughter’s bare feet were filthy. He could not help but cast a glance over towards the gate, where the hired muscle was at call. They merely waved back at him. He decided he might need to speak to them later. He did not want any old riff-raff staying here. Still, you had to give people a chance. You never knew who had bags of money. He composed his face into a smile of welcome and strode out to greet them.

‘I am Kettering, Under-manager of the Crown. How may I help you?’ he oiled.

For answer, the warrior hefted his moneybag and let the sound of its heavy coins jingle significantly. ‘A good room with two bedrooms. Dinner and breakfast,’ he said simply.

‘Well, I’ll see what I can do,’ Kettering said cautiously, looking carefully at the moneybag. Surely it could not all be gold.

‘You’ll do what he says, because he’s got lots of gold,’ Karia piped up.

Both men looked at her, astonished, but it was Kettering who recovered first. He nodded to the guards at the gate, letting them know they had done the right thing, then he bowed low, feeling a twinge of fear as his carefully-arranged hair shifted just slightly.

‘Well then, please leave your horse here, and follow me. We have some fine rooms, I can assure you, while our cooks are some of the best in this town,’ he said effusively, and turned to where a gaggle of stableboys waited. Tomon was led off to be unsaddled, brushed and fed, while Martil and Karia followed the prancing Kettering, and three boys followed them, staggering under the weight of Martil’s saddlebags.

Martil was amused by the man’s antics. He was prepared to put up with the fool, because one look inside the inn showed Menner’s recommendation was right—it was easily one of the better ones he had seen in Norstalos.

Karia was awed by the inn. After the deliberate simplicity of Father Nott’s home, and the wreckage of her da’s farm, the thick carpets, heavy brass lanterns, wooden panelling and rich furniture were very impressive.

‘Sir, we do ask our guests not to walk around with their weapons,’ Kettering remarked as he led them up a sweeping staircase. ‘We have the very best men employed to keep things quiet. Rallorans, you know. And of course, as we like to say, the only sword that can keep the peace is the Dragon Sword—and you are hardly likely to carry that.’

Martil shrugged. ‘I’ll leave them in my room,’ he agreed.

There was plenty of space. The ‘room’ turned out to be several: one comfortable sitting room, with several wide couches, a table and six cushioned chairs. To one side were a large bedroom and a bathroom, to the other was a second bedroom.

‘Da’s farm wasn’t as big as this,’ Karia exclaimed.

Martil saw Kettering’s eyebrows disappear up towards where his hairline should be.

‘I’m taking her to her uncle’s. It was the dying wish of her father,’ he told the man.

Kettering opened his mouth to ask another question, then looked into the warrior’s cold eyes and decided discretion was, after all, a vital part of his job.

‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy your stay with us, and if you need anything, do not hesitate to ask.’ He had the boys place the bags on the table, handed a large brass key to Martil, then disappeared.

‘What should we do now?’ Karia asked. She wanted to jump on the bed, but felt awed a little by the richness of the furnishings.

‘Baths before dinner,’ Martil said firmly.

He ignored her protests to carry her into the bathroom, where a large bath took pride of place. There were two taps, one red, the other blue, and he filled the bath, using the noise of the water to drown her defiant cries that she would not need a wash.

‘I had one yesterday! Da says you only need one twice a year!’ she yelled. ‘The water’s all cold.’ ‘This one is warm. See?’

Intrigued, she tested the water, to find it was warm. ‘How do they do that?’

Martil struggled to find the answer. ‘Obviously they warm it up with a fire.’

‘How?’

Martil finished filling the bath, began his hunt for soap and tried a joke. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps they have a dragon in the cellar.’

‘Wow! A dragon! Can we go and see it?’

Martil felt like hitting himself. ‘They don’t have a dragon. Now, have a bath.’

Only the threat of no dinner until she was bathed saw a reluctant Karia in the bath.

‘Right, now wash yourself and then call me when it is time to wash your hair,’ Martil told her.

Karia stared at him angrily. The water did feel nice but she could remember the bath from yesterday, with Father Nott. That was where she wanted to be. It was time to remind this Martil who was really in charge.

‘I want to get out,’ she told him.

‘You will stay in here and wash yourself,’ he told her.

‘Won’t.’

Martil realised he had backed himself into a corner, and judging from the triumph in her eyes, she knew it too. Well, he might have fallen into the enemy’s trap, but the only way out was to do the unexpected.

‘Fine,’ he sighed. Time to take a lesson out of that Menner’s book and try something different. He hunted around swiftly for something that could be used as a toy. There was nothing except a long-handled scrubbing brush. And nothing to do but pretend it was alive and a friendly creature. It was hard to do. But he hated being defeated more than he hated being made to look foolish.

Karia was determined to yell and scream but instead of reaching for the soap, he produced the long-handled scrubbing brush and announced its name was Mr Brush and wanted to meet her.

Despite herself, she was intrigued. What did he think he was doing? She forgot about yelling as Mr Brush pretended to swim, then started tickling her on the toes. By the time she worked out it was a trick, there was soap in her hair and on her feet and the bathwater was dirty.

When the bath was finished, Martil was sweating lightly and looking forward to a bath himself. It had been a victory, but hardly one to compare with the battle of Mount Shadar, his first as a war captain. Still, you had to start somewhere.

‘You go out and dry yourself, while I have a bath,’ he suggested. ‘Would you like something to eat?’

He was a funny man, she decided. Not even Father Nott had tried something like Mr Brush. She let him wrap two big warm, fluffy towels around her, then sit her on a soft chair while she ate an apple. That was nice, but when it was finished she was bored, so she decided to see what he was doing.

Martil had just sunk deep into a hot bath and relaxed when Karia walked back into the bathroom.

He sat up quickly, reached for the scrubbing brush, then remembered he couldn’t use that, so tried to place his hand nonchalantly on the water to cover himself. The water was deep, but not deep enough for his liking.

‘Aren’t you done yet? When’s dinner? My hair’s still wet and it’s running water down my back,’ she blurted out in one continuous stream.

‘Well, go and wait outside and I’ll be out in a bit,’ he insisted. She made no move to do so and the water wasn’t getting any deeper, so he tried again. ‘Why not look in my bag for an almond-honey sweet?’

She stomped off and he reached for a towel, only to discover she had all the big towels, and he had to make do with one not even big enough to wrap around his waist.

‘I think I preferred it when she was screaming at me,’ he told his reflection.

Dressed, and only slightly damp, Martil escorted Karia downstairs shortly afterwards. The dining room of the inn was huge, taking up most of the second floor, and even this early it was half-filled with hungry families as well as a number of men, and a few women, eating alone. They ate beef pie and vegetables and she began to ask questions again. A plate of fruit was called for, and while she worked her way through that, with some assistance from him, he began to realise he was attracting quite a bit of attention from women in the room, especially one woman eating by herself two tables away. But while Karia was no doubt helping attract these looks, having her at the table meant he could hardly leave her and go over for a chat. ‘I’m bored now. What can we do?’ Karia asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Martil was stumped. This was an inn. You ate, then you drank. If there was a bard performing, you left. If there wasn’t, you got into a fight or you found an attractive woman, not necessarily in that order. Those had been the only things he had done at inns for as long as he could remember. But he could not see how a small girl fitted into any of that.

‘Do you want to play with Dolly upstairs?’ he asked.

‘No. Can’t you read to me?’

Martil watched the woman two tables away. She had long brown hair, and brown eyes, and was wearing a long green gown that clung to all the right places, as far as he could see.

‘You wouldn’t like my books. I think I have some dice in my bags—you could play with those.’

‘Show me how.’

Reluctantly Martil dragged his eyes back to Karia. ‘Fine,’ he sighed.

He hoped he could get Karia to sleep in one of the bedrooms and then be back in time to talk to the woman. Upstairs, he dug out the bone dice he and his friends had once used to pass the time in barracks, when the Ralloran army had had a barracks. Everything was fine for the first few throws, then Martil dug out a few copper coins to play with. Karia was delighted to have some money of her own, she made it into little towers, she rolled it around and she even hugged it. The one thing Da had talked about endlessly when she had lived with him was money. How good it was to have it. How you could buy all sorts of things with it. Now she had money, she could do what she wanted. Even go and live with Father Nott.

Then disaster struck. Martil won the first roll, and she had to give him some of her money. He won the next one, although he tried not to, and then the third. When she watched him take the last of her money, she flung herself on the floor, kicking and screaming.

Quick, distract her, Martil thought, and offered her a glass of milk and the chance to play with all the copper coins. He left her making more towers of money and locked the door behind him as he hurried downstairs to the dining room to get the milk and see if he could talk to the woman and invite her to come back to his room after Karia was asleep.

He ordered the milk and, to his relief, saw the woman was just finishing her meal. While he was waiting for the glass to be brought out, he thought he would use the opportunity to talk to her.

‘You were down here earlier with your daughter, weren’t you?’ she said when he walked over to her table, which he took to be a positive sign.

‘That’s right. I’m just down here getting her a glass of milk.’

‘Is she with her mother?’

Martil decided this wasn’t the time to tell the full story. ‘No, her mother died in childbirth,’ he said, trying to compose his face in an expression of sorrow.

‘I am sorry,’ the woman sighed. ‘It must be difficult, raising a child on your own. You probably miss her already.’

‘Well, you know…’ Martil shrugged, trying not to convey the impression of a prisoner who was enjoying his first taste of freedom. ‘Why don’t you come up to my room later and we could talk about it,’ he offered.

‘Oh, I couldn’t! I’d disturb your daughter,’ she exclaimed. ‘Besides, they have a bard on tonight. It’s out of the question.’

Martil was desperately trying to think of a way to make it part of the question when someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to see the waitress, holding a glass of milk.

The woman diner smiled. ‘You’ll be wanting to get back to your daughter now. It’s so good to see a man taking care of a child.’

Martil was forced to keep a fixed smile in place, turn around and walk back upstairs with the glass in his hand, muttering to himself. His mood was not improved much by opening the door to discover a bored Karia had gone searching for more money, and thrown Martil’s supplies over the floor.

‘What are you doing?’ he yelled, and she disappeared under one of the beds.

Martil kicked the door closed, giving himself a sore foot, and realised this was not helping. He went into the bedroom and sat down on the floor, where he could see a couple of eyes peering out from under the wooden bed.

‘I have your milk. Want to come out and get it?’

‘No, I know that trick,’ she said sullenly.

Martil felt a little sick at that. I am better than him, he told himself.

‘There’s no trick. I was just surprised at what you were doing. It was my fault for leaving you alone. Now, how about you come out and I’ll tell you a story while you have your milk?’

Karia loved stories. Father Nott had told her several each night, always one from the Book of Aroaril, which tended to go on for a while and never had any dragons or interesting creatures in them. But he also read to her from the sagas—glorious tales of adventure and excitement—and magic!

‘Will the story have dragons in it? Or elves? Or princesses? I love them!’ she said.

Martil grimly reflected she liked the sagas. That did not bode well for him. Meanwhile he was struggling to remember some story that she might like. It had been many years since he had been told a story, and then it had been about how the treacherous Berellians were the spawn of Zorva. Not quite the sort of story a small girl wanted to hear. He managed to make up one about a dragon that had lost its puppy, only to find it had merely left it with an elf. He was horribly aware it was not a good story but could not think of anything better.

‘Is that it?’ Karia asked when he had finished.

‘Yes,’ Martil replied defensively. He would have been the first to admit he was not much of a storyteller but to have it pointed out like that seemed particularly brutal.

‘Bedtime now,’ he announced.

But Karia had no intention of going to bed yet. This place was too interesting and she was determined to see what else was in his saddlebags—or at least get a decent story out of it.

‘I’m not tired,’ she announced, which had always been her standard reply to Father Nott.

‘Well, I am,’ Martil said with feeling. Dealing with her was exhausting.

‘Are you going to go out if I go to sleep?’ she demanded.

Martil was tempted to see if Kettering could find him a woman. But he smiled instead. ‘No, I’ll be going straight to sleep, too.’

But Karia could tell there was something in his voice. Her da and brothers were always going out at night and leaving her. She had hated that. It was the thought of being all alone in a dark house. She had often fallen asleep crying and felt sick at the thought of waking up here alone.

‘Don’t leave me alone. I don’t like the dark,’ she begged him.

‘I wouldn’t leave you,’ Martil tried to convince her, hearing the tears just behind her voice.

‘Yes you would. You want to leave me. You wanted to leave me with Father Nott and now you want to take me to Uncle Danir and leave me there!’ she accused. She didn’t like him but it still hurt that he wanted to leave her as well. Nobody seemed to want her. It wasn’t fair! Whether she tried to be good or bad, they all still left her.

‘I want to leave you? You were the one who wanted to stay with Father Nott!’ Martil protested, feeling aggrieved. Then he saw her face. He sighed. ‘I won’t go. I promise. What can I do to convince you?’

Slightly reassured, she thought for a moment: ‘Can you brush my hair?’

Martil tried to follow that logic. ‘Why? Do you want to look your best while you sleep?’

‘No,’ she said, unable to believe a grown-up could be so silly. ‘Father Nott used to brush my hair and that put me to sleep.’

Refraining from suggesting that a quick blow from the hairbrush to the head would be a far better way of getting her to sleep, Martil got up and dug around in his pack until he found the old wooden hairbrush she had brought. Then he began to brush her hair, a not inconsiderable task. He had to be careful, because, just as he thought he had got her to sleep, he would tug at a knot in her hair and wake her up. Finally, all seemed quiet. He held his breath, and clutched the hairbrush, but she did not stir, just kept breathing softly. The night was now his. He could order up some drinks, more food, perhaps even see if Kettering employed any whores.

Then he looked down at her face, peaceful in sleep. And he knew he would not be able to enjoy any of it. He would be worrying about her the whole time. Why, he had no idea. She was a small, screaming monster who hated him. So why did he owe her anything? He could not answer that. It just felt wrong. He pondered getting up and going across to his own bedroom but did not even have the energy for that. So he closed his eyes and fell instantly asleep.

He was woken by a vicious elbow to the head and sat up, ready to defend himself—only to see Karia had rolled over and clobbered him while he slept. He lay back down and yawned—but was woken a short time later by a sharp kick to the knee. He looked down angrily but she was fast asleep and utterly oblivious.

‘I get the message,’ he grumbled, and staggered across to his bedroom. He never thought he would be so happy to get into an empty bed.

He was woken just after midnight by a scream. He raced across to find her sitting up in bed.

‘Where were you! I thought you had gone!’ she sobbed.

‘You kept hitting me! I just wanted some sleep!’ he tried to protest but there was no appealing to her. So he just sat on the bed and patted her back until she stopped crying.

‘Now I need to go to the toilet,’ she announced. ‘Where is it?’

Where we left it, Martil thought, but struggled off the bed and guided the half-asleep child to the toilet, then back to bed.

‘Brush my hair again,’ she insisted, once in bed.

‘Fine, but if you wake up again and I’m not here, I’ll be across in my own bed,’ he told her. ‘Understand?’

‘I’m not stupid, you big silly,’ she told him.

So he brushed her hair, lay down again, and fell asleep himself, and was woken by a stinging slap to the nose. Swearing under his breath, he staggered back to his bed.

He was able to sleep in peace—until dawn, when Karia woke him, announcing she was hungry.

‘It’s too early. Go back to sleep,’ he protested. ‘The kitchens won’t be open yet.’

It had been years since he had stood a watch through the night. Too many, it seemed, because it felt as though someone was hitting a hammer behind his eyes.

‘But I’m hungry! Is there any toast?’

Martil rolled over and hoped she would go away. He felt the bed creak as she climbed onto it and then little fingers grabbed hold of his eyelid and tried to open it.

‘Are you awake?

‘Let go!’ Martil jerked free and threw himself backwards, crashing off the bed and landing on the floor. He rolled onto his back and looked up to see her peering over the edge of the bed.

‘Are you awake now?’ she asked.

If Martil had learned one thing as a war captain, it was to recognise defeat when it was staring him in the face. We should have had a thousand like her—we could have broken the fighting spirit of the Berellians within a week, he thought.

It took him a long while to splash some water on his face and pull on his boots. Dawn was just lighting the sky and he wondered whether the kitchens would give them anything. Then he cursed himself for being stupid. There would be a dozen bakeries around here, all hard at work.

‘Come on, we’re going out,’ he said, deciding to take his swords along, just in case.

Word had spread. They might have divided the country but to many Rallorans, the ones who had suffered beneath the Berellian heel, the Butchers of Bellic were still heroes. Two were dead and one had disappeared. Bards all over the country were speaking of it, and there was much speculation as to how it had happened. Three accidents was too much and King Tolbert was forced to announce an inquiry. The man once known as War Captain Oscarl had no intention of waiting to see what that discovered. Instead he hired a coach, piled it high with possessions and left town for his old village. To ensure he arrived safely, he hired a squad of guards, who rode in front, behind and to the side of the coach, as well as on the roof. Surely nobody could possibly get to him while he was travelling—and the driver he had hired, a small, nondescript man in dark clothing, looked as if he knew his business.

Later, Cezar stepped over Oscarl’s body and down from the carriage. This had gone as well as could be expected. The country was suspicious but it was already too late. He was now less than half a day’s ride to the Berellian border and then he could pick up a change of horses and pursue Captain Martil.

Martil had followed his nose until the smell of baking bread almost became thick enough to spread butter on, then bought two hot cheese loaves from a baker. Then he had a fight with Karia about whether they were too hot to eat.

‘You’re not like Father Nott,’ she grumbled. ‘He’d let me have some.’

‘He’d let you burn your mouth on it and then turn it into a lesson about how you should listen,’ Martil declared. ‘Wait until we get back to the inn.’

She stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry at him.

‘That’s it. I’m going to eat the lot,’ Martil told her.

She started to wail and cry, and slumped to the ground. Martil tried to calm her, to no avail, and could imagine a horde of angry townsfolk coming out at any moment, ready to wreak revenge for being woken like this.

‘All right. If you are quiet, and sensible, I will give you one piece,’ he offered in desperation.

‘Don’t give in, man! Kids have to learn!’ a voice called, and he looked up to see a trio of militiamen walking towards them. They were smiling, obviously because they had heard the argument. Two were younger, while the third was a man in his forties, with a thick beard and the stripes of a sergeant on his chest.

‘Don’t worry,’ it was the sergeant who had spoken. ‘Children never listen to their fathers.’

Karia looked up. ‘He’s not my father,’ she announced.

Martil groaned. At that moment he would have happily stuffed an entire cheese bread loaf into her mouth to keep her quiet. The militiamen would have let them go on their way with a quick comment. Not now.

‘Really? Who is he then?’ the sergeant asked, his two men spreading out slightly.

Martil opened his mouth to explain but Karia was too quick.

‘He killed my father and brothers and now he’s taking me to my uncle but I don’t want to go. I want to stay with Father Nott back in the village.’

Martil tried to smile but he could see the militiamen’s faces had closed in, and their hands were now resting on their belts, close to the thick cudgels they all carried.

‘It’s not quite like that,’ he said with a half-laugh.

‘Oh really? Why don’t you tell me how it is then?’ the sergeant’s good humour had disappeared. Martil felt his anger begin to rise. How did he end up in this situation?

‘I was attacked by bandits, I fought them off, only to discover this girl. As she said, I am taking her to her uncle, at the request of a priest of Aroaril,’ he snapped. ‘I told a militia sergeant about what happened, back in Chell. I have no wish to go through it all again.’

‘Chell, you say? I saw a despatch from there last night. Bunch of notoriously bad bandits, Edil and his boys, were wiped out. But how could one man take out four bandits, even four as stupid as that family?’

Martil glared at the sergeant. ‘I’ve killed men across battlefields for half my life. You think four peasants could stop me? Or how about three militia? Could they?’

‘Who do you think you are?’ the sergeant growled.

One young constable, who had grown a moustache to make himself look older, pointed at Martil. ‘I saw that despatch too, Sarge. It said he was Captain Martil, one of the Butchers of Bellic.’

Martil had to admit he was pleased to be identified like that, because the three militiamen visibly relaxed.

‘Well, that makes a difference,’ the sergeant said warmly. ‘Getting rid of scum like that is a service to society.’

‘Don’t talk about my da that way, you militia shit-shoveller!’ Karia yelled, and Martil wondered if she had some sort of disease that made her say the worst possible thing at the worst possible moment.

‘She doesn’t know what that really means,’ Martil added hastily.

‘Aye, she’d be one of Edil’s pups,’ the sergeant said grimly. ‘What are you doing with her?’

‘Taking her to her uncle Danir,’ Martil shrugged, still feeling angry.

‘Uncle Danir? You can’t mean Danir the Destroyer?’ the moustached constable gasped.

Martil glared at him. ‘I don’t know how many uncle Danirs she has. I’ve never met the man.’

‘Village of Thest, across the border in Tetril?’

‘That’s it,’ Martil agreed, his heart sinking.

‘He owns the entire village. Doesn’t do anything to the Tetrans, just sneaks across the border at night to rob us,’ the sergeant growled. ‘You can’t take her there, they’ll kill you!’

‘He’ll find I’m a hard man to kill,’ Martil said grimly. However, dropping the girl off with some farmer was one thing—even if the man had six sons, he would still be confident of walking away in one piece. But taking her to a bandit chieftain…he might as well cut his own throat now. What had that bloody priest seen? Did he think Martil would be forced to keep her rather than commit suicide by telling a bandit he had killed his brother and nephews?

‘Don’t be a fool! You might have taken care of Edil and his pups but Danir has a whole village behind him. There’ll be thirty or forty bandits waiting for you. Look, why don’t you leave the girl with us? There’s a few families I know of that would be happy to take in a young child. They’ll soon knock the nonsense out of her and she’ll have a useful life. Better than anything she’ll get with Danir. And you’ll be alive into the bargain.’

Martil felt the temptation. He could see how Edil’s son had tricked him. They had not cared for Karia at all—she had just been a way for them to get their final revenge. The way they had prepared her, told her about Uncle Danir—did she even know that she was being sent to live with a bandit chieftain? Or did she think that it would be to a nice farm?

He could be smart and hand her over to the militia, be rid of her, and ride on. His imagined palace by the sea flashed across his mind immediately. But something stopped him from handing her over. Perhaps it was the conversation he had had with Nott, when the priest kept telling him his only path to life led to Thest and that to avoid Thest was to doom himself. Perhaps it was the oaths he had sworn. Perhaps it was even the memory of the look on Karia’s face the previous night, when he had promised not to leave her alone in the room.

Whatever, his instinct was not to give her up and as his instincts had kept him alive through countless battles, he was not going to argue with them. He would worry about this Danir later; just deal with the problem in front of him first. But he could not express all that to some militiaman.

‘No,’ Martil said simply.

‘Don’t make us take her,’ the sergeant warned. ‘She’s still the spawn of a criminal. And then there’s the little matter of her calling us “shit-shovellers”. That’s enough for a week in the cells.’

‘Don’t make me stop you,’ Martil said coldly, locking eyes with the sergeant. The early morning, the lack of sleep, the argument with Karia and now the knowledge of Uncle Danir all coalesced into a simmering ball of rage, just behind his eyes. Some of that must have shown, because the sergeant quickly backed down.

‘Well, don’t say we didn’t warn you. And as you lie gasping your last in some filthy Tetran village, remember we won’t be there to say “I told you so”.’

Martil led Karia past the trio and absently offered her a chunk of cheese bread.

‘Sarge, why are we letting him walk away?’ the constable with the thin moustache asked.

The sergeant turned his world-weary eyes on the two constables.

‘Boys, when you’ve been doing this for as long as I have, you’ll know when to pick your fights. We don’t get paid enough to deal with the likes of him.’

6

Earl Byrez knew he only had a little time. He had managed to make it back to his castle without being stopped, or killed. But surely that could not last. King Markuz would never tolerate a challenge to his authority. Equally, there was no way the Earl was going to convert to Zorva. Byrez had followed his King to war with enthusiasm, to inglorious defeat and humiliation without question. But this was too much.

‘What is it, my Lord?’ his parish priest and friend, Father Saltek, answered his summons.

‘The King is about to destroy this country forever,’ Byrez told him heavily. ‘We are to convert to worship of Zorva. The King had a Fearpriest at the meeting I was ordered to attend.’

‘Dear Aroaril save us!’ Saltek moaned.

‘There is no time for that,’ Byrez snapped. ‘We are going to see a bloodbath that will make the Ralloran Wars look like a child’s game. And it will start here. The King is mad and nobody wants to stop him. They would rather go along and be dragged down into a pit of evil than stand up for what is right. You must go into hiding. The Fearpriests’ first act will be to stamp out any priests they can find. The light of Aroaril must not go out in Berellia. Some good people will remain. We have to hope that, one day, we can have a normal country again.’

‘But, my Lord, what of you, what of my duties here?’

‘You are dismissed from here. Your only duty now is to Aroaril. Take this money and go into hiding, my friend—before they come for us both.’

Father Saltek embraced the Earl, who was too surprised to stop him.

‘I will see you again, my Lord,’ he said thickly.

Byrez waved him away. He had other worries. He could save Father Saltek, preserve him for Aroaril, but he doubted he could save himself, or his family. It was only a matter of time before Cezar came calling in the night.

Martil was hoping to relax a little back in their room but while Karia was initially quiet, once the cheese bread had been eaten she had no intention of letting him lie down—and certainly no intention of giving him the time and space to think about his next move.

‘I’m bored, what can we do?’ she demanded, jumping up and down beside him.

‘Aren’t you tired?’ he complained.

‘Come on! Think of something!’ she shouted into his ear. With a groan, Martil decided to saddle Tomon and go for a ride around the city. Danir could wait. He would think about it later. After all, there was still plenty of time. The border was days away. The inn packed them some food, as they would not be eating lunch in the dining room. Tomon had been fed, his coat brushed and his saddle cleaned, while Karia smelt clean, rather than just smelt, so it was a much more pleasant ride. However, Martil could not help but notice the mood of the town seemed different today. Yesterday, people had bustled around, moving as if they had a purpose. Today, they huddled in small groups at corners, looking around before moving on. The militia was out in force, extra men and patrols moving down the streets. Martil made sure Karia had her mouth full of something each time they passed, so she could not call out and draw their attention. He could not put his finger on the change but he knew what it reminded him of. A town near a battlefield, hearing its side had lost the day before, and not knowing what the future could bring. He told himself that was nonsense. Nothing threatened the Norstalines. But he could not shake the feeling.

He made a few other purchases, buying Karia a couple of extra dolls to play with, as well as a wooden spinning top, a small leather ball and a better hairbrush. He had also picked up a couple of storybooks, which he was dreading having to read. He knew what would be inside them. Soppy, ridiculous sagas, full of rubbish about noble princes and beautiful princesses, quests, elves and dragons. But he was pleased with the instant success these purchases brought; Karia was particularly taken with one of the dolls and cuddled her close.

She was enjoying herself immensely. There was food whenever she wanted it and Martil was willing to answer all her questions, as well as take her to see the animals and the markets. Then there were the toys. She could not wait to play with them.

By the time they had made all their purchases, and Karia had eaten her packed lunch—and all the interesting bits from Martil’s—it was almost noon, so Martil steered Tomon to Menner’s shop.

The shop was crowded this time, and there was obviously no point in trying to squeeze inside, so they walked down the street, looking at the other shops. Only one caught his eye. Its window was boarded over, with the words ‘Fernal, wizard of the Fourth Circle, by appointment only. No free magic’ painted in large letters. A few crude stars had also been added, for effect, while the words ‘no free magic’ had been underlined.

Karia was fascinated when she heard it was a wizard’s shop. ‘Can we look inside? Can we pleeease?’ she begged.

‘Another time,’ Martil said absently. He disliked all wizards. They had this gift, and what did they do with it? Charge exorbitant amounts of money and prance around telling everyone how important they were.

Back at Menner’s he was delighted to find the shop had emptied, and doubly delighted to discover the clothes were ready—but not as delighted as Karia, who enjoyed trying everything on. Except for the shoes. She complained they made her feet itch, and it took all of Menner’s persuasion, as well as Martil’s determination, to make her keep them on. Even then, she went into a sulk that was broken only by some almond-honey sweets and the last—and best—dress.

Martil found himself casting about for something to say, as he and Menner waited for Karia to stop admiring herself in the dress.

‘What’s the news today?’ Martil could see three people huddled together outside the shop, talking animatedly, and guessed that the dressmaker knew all about the latest gossip.

Menner could not resist. ‘Terrible news, sir. They say the Dragon Sword has been stolen from the palace. The word is the army has been called out to search for it, and the Royal Guard has been dismissed because it failed to stop the thief,’ he said, hardly able to keep the smile from his face at the excitement of it all.

‘The Dragon Sword? But how could it be stolen?’ Martil could not imagine how the greatest treasure in the kingdom could have been left vulnerable to theft.

‘That is the question we have all been asking. Since we’ve had the Dragon Sword, we’ve enjoyed nothing but peace, while war has racked our neighbours. Without it, who knows what will happen to our poor country?’

Martil was tempted to point out that the armies of their neighbouring countries were either small or broken, while the Norstaline army was strong and numerous. But he kept quiet.

‘The militia said orders from the palace are for the army to restore order. Squadrons of cavalry have been seen on the western road. Maybe the thieves came this way. Imagine that! And calling in the army! Duke Gello must be delighted!’

‘So, about this Duke Gello,’ Martil began, but then the bell on the front door rang and two customers walked in.

Menner’s mouth shut with a snap and he bowed to Martil, then hurried over to the new customers before he was overheard talking about Gello. He planned to keep his entrails where they belonged, thank you very much.

Martil wondered about the news, then shrugged. It was the least of his problems.

Karia decided to wear the pink dress, with white and purple flowers stitched across the shoulders. The rest went into Martil’s saddlebags, which were now full with clothes and toys, although somewhat lighter in food.

They stopped for a late lunch for Martil, a second for Karia, in a park where other townsfolk were enjoying the warm sun. It proved to be a revelation for them both. They had to try out all the toys, and Martil tried to teach her how to throw and catch. Despite himself, he could not help but enjoy that, and to see her laughing with delight when she was able to catch, or when he pretended to drop the ball, was worth it. For once he was able to listen to a child’s laughter without thinking of Bellic. It was a good feeling. What was even better was that he didn’t feel the need for a drink. He hadn’t drunk anything since the whisky at Father Nott’s place. Perhaps because she never gave him a moment’s peace. It was infuriating but he did not have the time to think about Bellic, or any of the other memories that haunted him. By himself, he had too much time to dwell on those thoughts—with her, his mind was on other things.

Time sped by, and it was getting late when he finally called a halt. They would have a brisk ride to make it to the next village before dark. He was almost afraid to stop the games, afraid that if he did, Karia would go back to screaming at him, but she was seemingly happy to go.

As for Karia, her legs felt tired and she wanted to just sit on the horse and take it easy. She had not run around like that for a long time and she wanted a rest and a chance to cuddle her dolls. This was the life, she decided. Not even Father Nott had played with her like that.

‘You must kill Martil quickly!’

Cezar reflected that he may be faceless, but Onzalez knew how to voice a threat effectively. Markuz usually ranted and raved but Onzalez favoured a chilling coldness that hinted at a bubbling fury beneath.

‘I am after him now, Brother,’ Cezar replied coolly. Cezar knew his own value. He would not be killed.

‘There has been some…reaction from the nobles here to the King’s plans. You will be needed back here sooner than we thought. Kill him and do it quickly. Time is against us.’

Martil rode out of Wollin without a backward glance. The town might be seething with news of the Dragon Sword but he could not see how it was going to affect him. After their time in the park, he was not so worried about travelling with Karia, either. He felt he had learned a real lesson back in the town, both how to deal with her and how to deal with his anger. It was a good feeling.

The main trade road east to Tetril was large and well travelled. Martil quickly overtook a few wagons, as well as a small flock of sheep that wandered from one side of the road to the other, but once past them, was able to relax a little. He tried to keep up a good pace, partly so they reached a village before nightfall but also to make up for the time lost when Karia needed to stop for the toilet, or when he had to burrow around in his bags to get her a drink or something to eat, or when her doll needed to go to the toilet. Martil had tried to draw the line at that one, but after much screaming and shouting, Dolly went behind the bushes. Dolly had nearly been thrown into the bushes—the only thing that stopped Martil from doing that was the sure knowledge there would be even more crying and screaming.

Karia had been put out when Martil had been reluctant to play her game with Dolly. After all, he had been the one who had come up with Mr Brush. So she kept pestering him until he at least pretended to be the voice of Tomon, which she thought hilarious.

By now, Martil was looking around for some distraction; a dust cloud in the distance behind them sparked his interest. It turned out to be five cavalrymen, riding in rough formation, and moving just short of a gallop. Martil watched them with a critical eye. No cavalry commander in his division would dare exhaust their horses like that. You never knew when you would really need your horse’s energy. Cavalry on tired horses just made inviting targets. As they came closer, he kept twisting around in the saddle to watch them. They wore short mail shirts, leather breeches and tall boots. From the design on a fluttering banner one of the men held, it seemed they were Norstaline Light Horse. Ideal for scouting, for chasing a broken enemy and, of course, for slaughtering infantry. He wondered what they were doing here.

Martil made sure Tomon was right over on the side of the road, so they could pass him easily. But then the cavalry swooped around him, bringing their horses to a stop in a spray of dirt and sweat.

‘Halt! Who are you?’ Their leader, a thin man with bulging eyes and a scatter of red spots across his face, called out in a voice that was meant to sound commanding. Martil saw he had a single crown on his tunic sleeve, signifying he was a Second Lieutenant, a junior officer. Martil had seen the type. Once they’d joined up and been given a small command they thought they were Aroaril’s gift to the army.

‘I am War Captain Martil of the King’s First Own Ralloran regiment. And who are you?’ Martil declared, sure his reputation would put this upstart into his place.

The young man flushed, which only served to highlight his spots. ‘I am Lieutenant Havrick of the Norstaline Light Cavalry.’

Havrick’s blood was up. Finally, something exciting was happening. No more endless days of drill and duty and trying to memorise regulations and orders. The Dragon Sword had been stolen and it was up to every loyal Norstaline to show what they were made of. The news had come through earlier today, brought by a rider on an exhausted horse, who only stopped long enough to change mounts and deliver patrol orders. The First Lieutenant had followed these, sending the bulk of the men towards the capital, and north and south, leaving Havrick and a few troopers to keep an eye on the road to Tetril.

‘The thieves shouldn’t have got this far but you never know,’ the First Lieutenant had said. ‘Think you can handle it, Havrick?’ Havrick had jumped at the chance. He was sick of being told he had no hope of promotion, that his inability to remember the regulations would ruin his career. Find the Dragon Sword and the rewards would be many: promotion, gold, women. He had even found himself hoping the magic Sword might choose him as its wielder. Then he would be the hero of his nation. That would prove them all wrong. It was in this hope that he had been ordering his men to chase down anything suspicious. Now this man, who claimed he was a mongrel Ralloran, was defying him.

‘I have orders to patrol this road. We stopped a couple of wagons a few miles back and they told us a rider had galloped past them not long ago. Were you that rider?’

Martil could barely believe that for once—and just when he needed it—his name had not been recognised. So his voice was cold. ‘Do I look like I’m galloping? You wouldn’t have caught me if I was galloping, because your horses would have become lame after another few miles. Basic cavalry procedure. Conserve your horses or make sure you have replacements. You might learn that once you’ve had a few years in the army.’

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 training 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?’

‘No.’

‘What do they teach you down in Rallora?’ Berne gasped in horror.

Martil ground his teeth together. ‘Have you not heard of a little thing called the Ralloran Wars? Killed thousands of people over the past sixteen years? It kept us a little busy to study the legends of some sword in Norstalos.’ He paused, aware he was starting to lose control of his temper. But how could he explain what things had been like to an apple merchant? Never knowing if you were going to survive another day. Why would he care or even think about what was going on in another country?

‘Well, I shall tell you,’ Berne announced, settling himself comfortably. ‘Back in the days of King Riel, Norstalos was a country at siege. We had just begun exploring the north—and clashing with the goblins that lived there. The Tetrans were raiding across the border, the Berellians looked threatening and, worst of all, half the nobles refused to acknowledge the crown and pay taxes, instead raising private armies and ruling their own little fiefdoms. Then King Riel saved a dragon from being killed by the goblins and everything changed. The dragons gave him the magical Dragon Sword. Many claim it has the power to keep Norstalos at peace but I, for one, believe that to be incorrect. Rather its power is in inspiring other men to do what is right. Either way, the nobles joined Riel in punishing the goblins for their horrendous crime, the people rallied to the crown and we discovered rich farmlands and gold in the hills of the far north. Our prosperity was assured and, with it, our peace and safety. The King had money to raise a large army and pay it to keep us at peace. All because of the Dragon Sword. Riel died soon after but he passed on the rules of the Dragon Sword to his son…’

‘Yes, and I’m sure they are fascinating,’ Martil interrupted. As if he would ever need to know that! ‘Anyway, why are you all so worried about it? Your army is still the biggest around, nobody is going to invade you,’ he pointed out.

‘The trouble will not come from outside but inside the country. There wouldn’t be a problem if Duke Gello had drawn the Sword but it refused him; he’s got about as much chance of invoking the magical powers of the Dragon Sword as I have of sprouting wings.’

‘What’s magic?’ Karia asked into the sudden silence.

Martil could see this becoming a long lunch. ‘That’s a question that would take too long to answer. Berne has to be on his way, and so do we,’ he said hastily.

‘Oh, I’ve got plenty of time. These apples aren’t truly ripe yet,’ Berne smiled.

Despite Martil’s protestations, he began to describe in detail how magic worked. Martil remembered Father Nott saying something about Karia and magic, but he could not believe it. Being able to use magic was a rare gift. Perhaps one in a thousand people had the power and not all of them were able to do anything with it.

‘Magic is in all of us. It is the force that nurtures us, helps us grow and breathe and love and see. When something is born, a little bit of magic is used to make it come alive. As it grows it uses more magic, then its death releases the magic back into the world, where it is used to create something else. It is all a circle, a great circle. But magic-users, or wizards, or magicians, whatever you want to call them, they have a way of taking this raw magic and using it in different ways.’

‘How?’ Karia wanted to know.

Berne smiled. ‘Magic is a natural force flowing around the world, which can do anything from causing the wind to blow to making this apple grow. You can learn to turn this to your use. Wizards study plants, weather, birds and animals, trying to see how they do things. Then they try and learn how to copy that, so they can make it happen through magic.’

‘How do you know so much?’ Karia asked, open-mouthed.

‘I once studied with a wizard. My parents thought I had some power, with my obsession with growing things, and of course I had been dreaming of dragons. But I never even made the First Circle.’

‘What?’

‘Pass your tests and you gain entry to the First Circle, then the Second Circle and so on, until you have reached the Ninth Circle.’

‘How long does that take?’ Karia asked.

Can’t be any longer than this lunch, Martil thought to himself, stirring restlessly.

‘Oh, many never make it. To be admitted to the Seventh Circle is seen as a great honour. There are probably only three or four wizards in Norstalos who have attained the Ninth Circle. They can use magic in ways you’ve never even thought of, they can take a natural process they have seen happen in a rare plant, and replicate it with a human, or an animal. But it costs them. They have to give back in energy what they take in magic. If they use too much, or try to do too much when they are already tired, it can kill them. That is why there are some things, such as flying, which are impossible. They take too much energy. The magic must be replaced, and it will take their life force if that is necessary to keep the circle flowing smoothly. The circle is everything. Everything must die, and release its energy back into the circle to allow it to continue.’

‘Everything must die? Even dragons?’ Karia asked.

‘Well yes, even dragons. Nothing can break the circle. But I hope I never see the day when the dragons start to die! Aroaril knows what will happen then!’

‘But…’ Karia began.

Martil recognised the danger signs. She was going to keep asking questions until nightfall. And Berne seemed happy enough to keep answering them.

‘We need to get going, and so does Berne. Thank you for lunch, and your stories, but if we don’t go soon, then we’ll never make the next village by nightfall. It’s slow going with a small child.’ Martil smiled apologetically at Berne.

Despite Karia’s protests, and Berne’s offers to let them sleep under his wagon that night, Martil managed to get her onto Tomon and riding off, waving goodbye to Berne. But that small victory gave him little peace. All the questions she had wanted to ask Berne, she now asked him.

Karia had always been fascinated by the thought of magic. Seeing Father Nott use the power of Aroaril to heal and help had sparked her interest, but for the past couple of years she had also dreamt of dragons. She loved those dreams. They always started the same. A dragon would come to greet her, although the dragons changed each night. Sometimes they were golden, and massive, sometimes lithe, small and green, and at other times were all different colours, with different voices. They would take her for a ride, swooping high into the air. It made her want to learn about magic. So now she eagerly grabbed the chance. Martil must know. He knew the answers to all her other questions.

Martil struggled to answer. He had no idea how you used magic, or how you knew you could do magic, although he did know that the dragons were the guardians of magic, who made sure the circle of magic kept turning, that life kept being replenished.

As for the elves, they were not the magical creatures of the sagas, but a race of men who served the dragons. Apparently, living so close to such strong magic for so long had changed their appearance, so their faces looked something like a dragon’s, leading to their comparison with the mythical beings that lived only in sagas.

Karia had been bitterly disappointed about that.

‘But elves and fairies and goblins are real! They’re in all the sagas!’ she protested.

‘There’re no such things,’ Martil pointed out, as gently as he could. ‘They’re just in the sagas. What we call goblins are a race of men who look strange to us, what we call elves are a race of men affected by magic. There are no fairies or talking rabbits or anything of that sort. It’s just people making things up.’ He looked at her crestfallen expression and sighed. ‘How about we find a wizard somewhere who can tell you the full story?’ he suggested.

‘All right,’ she shrugged, disappointed she would not meet real elves.

The village inn they stayed in that night was, if possible, even worse than others. The talk was the same, however. The Dragon Sword and the future.

After much pestering by Karia, Martil asked the innkeeper if there was a wizard in the area, so she could learn some more about magic.

‘A wizard? Here?’ The innkeeper, a skeletally thin man with a dripping nose, looked around the musty inn. ‘Folks around here can’t afford wizarding. You go and ask the priest, real nice, or you do without. Old Wood’s second son, Rush, he became a wizard. Went away to the big city to learn it, never came back.’

Martil relayed the information to a less-than-pleased Karia but there was nothing he could do about it. Personally, he was getting frustrated with the farmers and their endless worries about the Dragon Sword, so he stayed in the room after putting Karia to bed. Of course, first he had to read her a story, about some silly princess who was stuck in a tower until a prince came to rescue her, then had to sing Karia his song about going to sleep. It worked, as far as putting her to sleep, although he still found she had a tendency to kick him in the middle of the night. By now he had accepted defeat in the partition of the bed, so when he woke up to find himself perched precariously on the edge, while she was snuggling into his back, he just left her there. But at least he wasn’t getting any more nightmares, while her early morning starts ensured they made good progress on the road.

Martil noticed the countryside was changing, becoming more hilly, as the road curved gently around and met up with the main eastern trade route. He was fairly confident that Havrick would have given up the search by now, or found more useful things to do. Still, he kept an eye out, just in case. Anything to stop him doing what he really should have been doing—thinking about what was waiting for him in Thest. He could not rid himself of the compulsion that he had to go there, even now it had been revealed to be the stronghold of a bandit.

Though they were now back travelling on the main road, this far east it was pretty quiet. The farmhouses around here were bigger, often built on the tops of hills, and surrounded by cleared ground. Instead of mud and thatch, or wood, these were built only of stone. Their windows looked more like arrow slits and they all had solid stone outhouses. Martil guessed they were enough to hold off a score of bandits for a night. There were few animals, and the crops seemed to be things such as turnips and carrots—vegetables that could not be stolen easily.

He thought about things like that, because Karia was still full of questions. A few days ago he would have paid good gold for a little peace and quiet but now he was not only used to it, he was enjoying having her there, rather than being alone with his thoughts.

Cezar knew Martil would not have travelled through Berellia. No, he would have gone through Aviland and up through eastern Norstalos. That meant Cezar could cut the corner and close the gap dramatically. Added to which, he guessed Martil was taking it easy, not pushing his horse, while he had no such qualms himself. He had four fast horses, and he was willing to ride all of them to death if it meant catching Martil. Norstalos was a big place but he was confident he could find his prey. Martil would be using the main roads, so all he had to do was ask if anyone remembered a Ralloran with two swords. A little gold—and the plausible story that the Ralloran was an old friend who owed him money—should provide him with information. And once he was close enough, he had no doubt as to the outcome. This Martil might claim to be the best bladesman on the continent but Cezar had no intention of fighting fairly. A dart in the back, a knife in the night, poison in his food or drink—either way, dead was dead.

7

The last village at the border had a high wooden wall around it, with men patrolling along the top and several on the gate. Like the farms around here, it seemed the local residents were rather wary of Danir. Martil did have a moment’s unease when he saw the militia on the gate, wondering if Havrick would have sent word on ahead. But the militia waved them through easily enough. At least the village inn was something to look forward to, much better than the ones they had ‘enjoyed’ on the way there. It had a separate dining room away from the bar, and the bedrooms were both large and clean. Martil dropped his bags on a table and looked out the window, towards Tetril. He had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, similar to the one he used to get before battle. Perhaps it’s because you’re planning to see a bloodthirsty bandit tomorrow and tell him you killed his brother and nephews, he thought. Then he thought more and realised, whatever happened to him, he did not want to see Karia end up with another Edil, who beat and abused her. She deserved more than that.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘Whether we should just turn around and not see your uncle tomorrow,’ he shrugged.

‘We’re seeing him tomorrow?’ Karia asked in horror. She had been enjoying this ride so much, and the thought of going back to what life had been like with her da made her feel sick. ‘I don’t want to see Uncle Danir! He’s going to be even meaner than Da! He’ll hate me, and he’ll kill you!’

‘Oh, he will, will he?’ Martil said grimly. Obviously Edil had told Karia what to expect when they arrived at Thest. She kept that quiet, he thought bitterly.

She seemed to follow what he was thinking. ‘At first I wanted you to be punished, so I thought I’d let you bring me here and face Danir and his gang. Then when you wouldn’t let me stay with Father Nott, I hated you even more and wanted to see you hurt. But now…now I would rather stay with you than go to Uncle Danir. Don’t make me go there! Da was afraid of Danir. He only wanted to use him as revenge. He wouldn’t have cared about me. And if Da didn’t like Uncle Danir, I know I won’t.’

Martil sat there, stunned. He simply had no idea what to do now. What had Father Nott seen? He racked his brain to remember the priest’s exact words. They had been ‘go to Thest’. Not, ‘head towards Thest and then go somewhere else when you learn the truth’. Why was it that old priests liked being so bloody mysterious? Couldn’t the man just tell him what was waiting there?

‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ Nott had said.

But surely it could not be bad, because Nott would not want to put Karia in danger. So what was it?

‘Karia, do you trust Father Nott?’ he asked.

‘Of course. Why?’

‘Because he told me we had to go to Thest. He said it was very important.’

Karia was less than impressed with this.

‘You’re trying to trick me. When we get there, you’ll just ride off and leave me.’ She crossed her arms and stared at him balefully. ‘I’m not happy.’

Martil struggled to stop himself smiling at the expression on her face. ‘It is no trick. Perhaps Father Nott saw a proper family you can stay with. Surely you would like to play with other children rather than me.’

‘I like playing with you. And reading stories. And eating nice food. I bet they won’t do that. It’ll be like living in the forest again.’

Martil reflected on her preference for life with him to life in the forest. It was something of a compliment, he supposed.

‘Father Nott wanted us to go there. He must know something. So we’ll see what’s there, but if you’re not happy, we will leave,’ if we still can, he added silently. ‘All right?’

She was not convinced, but eventually agreed. After all, so far he had kept his promises. ‘All right. But if I’m not happy, I’ll let you know.’

Martil held out his hand and she shook it solemnly.

So now they would find out what the priest had seen.

The innkeeper looked like an old soldier. He had a bristling grey moustache, a shaved head, a straight back and burly forearms. He introduced himself as Darry, shook hands in the warrior’s grip, and told Karia she was beautiful.

The crowd in the dining room was also different from the usual flock of smelly farmers. There were quite a few merchants, and because this was bandit country, quite a few guards for the merchants. Martil had drawn back at first, because he could see almost all of them were Rallorans. It should not have been a surprise. When the King disbanded the regiments responsible for Bellic, it left thousands of men out of work who had known nothing but war in their adult lives. Some went back to their villages, but many had seen too much, as Martil had, to pick up their old lives. But they had to eat, so a lot of them signed up as caravan guards in Norstalos, where the pay was good and the chances of action remote.

As Martil walked past, he saw eyes widen in recognition, and two men, obviously well into their drinking, even saluted him.

Innkeeper Darry seated them at a small table and pointed out the chalkboard menu on the wall.

‘Ralloran officer?’ he said quietly.

‘Aye,’ Martil agreed cautiously, not wanting to reveal too much.

‘Say no more,’ Darry winked.

They ordered the roast chicken and vegetables, and while they were waiting, Martil looked around the room to see nearly a dozen of the militia over the far side, near the bar, drinking and laughing. He could not help but ask Darry, when the innkeeper returned with their food, why they were in here and not out patrolling.

Darry sniffed and lowered his voice. ‘They know, with all the caravan guards here, that Danir would never strike at the village. So they sit here warm and safe and let the countryside suffer.’

‘Why do you put up with it?’ Surely a squadron of cavalry could lie in wait for Danir and end the bandit’s menace once and for all.

‘Never would have done years ago,’ Darry shrugged. ‘But in the past few years, the army has been interested in anything but protecting the farmers. They’ve got more important business now, they tell us. Too busy. Pah! In my day, we would have been down here with a few archers and some light cavalry, and had us a dead pack of bandits within a week. Last couple of years, Danir’s just got bolder and bolder, because we sit back and take it.’ Darry seemed about to say more, but was called away to serve some of the militia. He fixed a smile on his face and hurried over.

For once, Karia did not ask what was going on, partly because she was busy eating, mainly because there was a table of loud Avishmen behind her, and she was a little intimidated by their noise. All through the meal, the Avish got louder and louder, swearing and laughing. Martil debated about asking Darry to move them, or request that the Avish be a little quieter, but could see that would only cause trouble for the inn. So he decided to go back to their room. They could always come back for dessert later.

‘Let’s go,’ Martil put down his knife and fork.

She obligingly pushed her chair back so she could stand—and rammed it into the chair of the Avish guard behind her. Normally the man would have barely noticed it, but he had been trying to drain a flagon of ale at that moment, and the bump was enough to send the beer cascading over his face, rather than down his gullet.

Spluttering and swearing, the Avishman jumped to his feet and turned around to see who had knocked his chair. Like most of his countrymen, he was tall and blond, with an impressively long moustache, now looking bedraggled and soaked in ale. But his fair face was flushed with anger and his blue eyes were reddened.

‘Why you little…!’ he growled and drew back his hand.

‘Touch her and you’ll be drinking without your hand,’ Martil snapped, jumping up himself.

The Avishman looked at Martil. ‘I hope you’ve got enough money to buy me new clothes and drinks for the rest of the night. Then I might forgive a little girl and her grandmother,’ he sneered.

Martil could see Darry bustling over, ready to defuse the situation, and knew he could allow the innkeeper to buy the Avish some drinks, throw in a flagon of ale himself, and probably walk away. He considered it for a moment, then smiled at the Avishman.

‘I’d buy you a drink, but I didn’t think dogs were allowed in here,’ he said coolly.

It took a moment for the Avishman to understand the insult, then he snarled and nodded to his companions, who also pushed back their chairs. Martil stood relaxed, but his hands were close to his sword hilts. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Darry urging the militia to do something, but they were studying their beer instead.

‘I hope you Avish are as good as you think you are,’ a strange voice said, in the moment before the room exploded into violence.

‘What?’ The Avishman did not want to break eye contact with Martil, and neither did Martil want to look away from him, so they did not turn to see who the speaker was.

‘You’re about to fight War Captain Martil.’

Martil could not help but feel gratified by the reaction his name had on the Avishman. Perhaps he had fought against this man’s unit at some point. The man’s face paled, and his mouth sagged open, while his two companions promptly sat down.

‘Th—the Butcher of Bellic?’ he croaked.

‘Only to my friends,’ Martil snarled.

The Avish weighed up their options. Not only was Martil reputed to be unstoppable with the sword but the room was filled with Ralloran warriors. It was an easy choice, in the end.

‘Your daughter surprised me. I reacted hastily. My apologies. Perhaps we could share a drink and say no hard feelings?’ he said gruffly.

Martil was in no mood to let him off easily but the man who had intervened stepped forward, and into his line of sight.

‘Captain Martil,’ he saluted, and Martil gazed at a man of medium height, with a thatch of reddish hair, a once-broken nose and green eyes. He was only slightly familiar. ‘Sergeant Nerrin. I joined your regiment just before the battle of Mount Shadar. You saved my life there when you led that last countercharge. I was only with you for six months before you recommended me for promotion when the King created a new division under Captain Macord.’

Martil saluted him in return. He did not remember the man but then he had commanded thousands of men during the war. Part of him was grateful for the intervention, part was frustrated he had been cheated of taking out his anger on three half-drunken Avish.

Nerrin turned to the Avish. ‘I think the captain and his daughter were heading off to bed, but I’ll drink with you.’

‘Let me buy a flagon for you both.’ Darry bustled over and the Avish sat down gratefully.

Karia was afraid; afraid of the big, drunken men, and afraid that something would happen to Martil. Then she saw how the men were afraid of Martil and was just confused. The Martil she had seen about to attack those men was different from the one who played with her dolls and cut flowers for her. Then he smiled at her and held out his hand and she relaxed.

Martil had to return the salutes of every Ralloran in the room before he could leave.

‘Why did those men put their hands on their chests when you walked past? Why did they call you a butcher? Why were they scared of you? What happened?’ Karia was full of questions.

Martil tried to answer her questions but could see she did not understand.

‘How about I read you a story?’ he offered instead. ‘I don’t feel very tired.’

Sergeant Hutter always told people he liked the quiet life. So this was too much excitement for him. First, a Ralloran warrior had gone through the area and killed off his biggest problem, the bandit Edil. Then the village priest had left, replaced by a woman of all things! Hutter knew there were increasing numbers of priestesses of Aroaril; he just had not expected to see one in his village. And now, to top it off, there was this strange man asking questions.

‘So, you are looking for Captain Martil.’ Hutter considered the man for a few heartbeats. There was something about him that was eerie, worse even than that Martil. He had the feeling that Martil was eager for a fight, but this man, he was just eager to kill. The sooner he was away from here, the better. Hutter came to a quick decision. ‘He rode through a few days back. He was on his way to Wollin,’ he said shortly.

‘My thanks to you, Sergeant. Good day.’

Hutter watched him climb into the saddle of an expensive-looking horse and ride away. As far as he was concerned, the two of them deserved each other. As long as the meeting was a long way from Chell.

Darry had enjoyed watching the Avish humiliated last night. He liked having Rallorans for customers because they always spent plenty of gold—but the Avish just wanted to fight. And he had been amazed to hear some of the stories about Captain Martil. The Rallorans had regaled everyone in the inn with tales of killing the Berellian Champion Hizek, of how he had made men more afraid of him than of the Berellian Guards, of how he had held Mount Shadar for a whole day with just one regiment until the King arrived with the rest of the army. As an old soldier, Darry had always had sympathy for the Rallorans and their fight for freedom, although he had been horrified at the destruction of Bellic. It was hard to reconcile the reality of the man looking after a small child with the saga of the Butchers of Bellic. Darry had heard it performed three times in his inn and had actually banned bards from doing it again. He found it too depressing. He much preferred it when the bards did the old sagas, the ones with a bit of a tune to them and plenty of heroism, lucky escapes and beautiful maidens. Business was better after those. So in more ways than one, this Martil was intriguing, and while life out here on the border was busy, it offered little in the way of intrigue. When Martil and the girl came down for breakfast, he thought he would join them.

He was shocked to hear they wanted to travel to Thest, although, when pressed, he agreed to provide directions as well as a fine breakfast of fruit and oatmeal.

‘It’s not on the trail. You ride for half a day, then watch for this huge stone, shaped just like a woman’s ti—I mean a woman’s…’

‘I know what to look for,’ Martil said shortly, glancing to where Karia was scraping up the last of her honeyed oatmeal. She was uncharacteristically quiet again this morning. Perhaps she had picked up his mood, perhaps she was scared also.

‘Watch yourself. And her,’ Darry said bluntly. ‘You have quite a reputation, enough to put those Avish off their drinks, but Danir isn’t called the Destroyer for nothing. Why in Aroaril’s good name are you going to see that blackheart?’

‘A priest told me to,’ Martil shrugged.

‘A priest told me not to swear, drink or hump any women who aren’t my wife! Just because a priest says something, doesn’t mean you have to listen! At least take a bunch of those Ralloran guards I have staying here. Those boys would happily follow you, and turning up with a score of them would make even Danir think twice.’

Martil shook his head. ‘I won’t lead men again. I swore I was done with that when I left Rallora. I’ve had enough of ordering men to their deaths. Besides, I’m going to give Danir his niece back, not try and bring him in. If I turn up with a score of warriors, we’re going to fight, and what happens to her then? This is something I have to do.’

Darry stared at him. There was no reasoning with some people. ‘Your funeral, my friend.’ Darry shrugged and cleared away the bowls.

Kettering could not believe this was happening. A moment ago his biggest worry had been trying to get his hair to sit right on his scalp. Then a stranger had walked in, dragging a dead stableboy with him, and was now holding a knife to Kettering’s throat.

‘I need information and I need it now. Did you have a Ralloran warrior staying here? A man with two swords?’

Kettering was about to angrily declare that the privacy of the guests was more important than his life, then his brain realised what the end result of such a comment would be.

‘Would that be a man travelling with a little girl?’ he quavered.

Cezar’s interest was piqued. What was Martil doing with a small girl? Then he reminded himself to focus on the job at hand. This was the fourth inn he had checked, and it was the first he had heard of either a Ralloran or a girl. He had hoped to question the gate guards, but when he saw they were Rallorans, knew they had to be avoided instead. Worse, he knew time was running out. He had left men dead at the previous three inns and surely the militia would be involved soon.

‘He might be. The important thing was the swords. Two swords!’

‘Yes, there was one. A few days ago. Stayed with his ward or something. He was heading east, to Tetril.’

Cezar reached into a pouch and produced a handful of gold.

‘Can I trust you to stay quiet about this?’ he growled.

Kettering’s carefully-arranged hair fell in every direction as he nodded his head vigorously. ‘Not a word. Discretion is my middle name.’

‘Breathe a word of this to anyone and I’ll come back to rip your guts out,’ Cezar warned, then dropped the coins on the floor. When Kettering bent down to pick them up, he stunned him with a blow to the head. Kettering slumped onto the floor, unconscious, then Cezar slipped the bloody knife into his unresisting hand. He surveyed the scene with satisfaction. A dead stableboy, a handful of gold stolen from three other inns and a murder weapon. He knew the militia would enjoy that, and waste no time on a story about a mysterious stranger asking questions about a Ralloran warrior.

The change from Norstalos to Tetril was immediately obvious. The Norstaline farms close to the border were sparse and massively fortified. The Tetran farms, as if knowing they were safe from Danir’s deprivations, let sheep and cattle graze in fields close to the road, and instead of stone, the construction was of mud and thatch.

Karia did not look at the view. She could not help but think about what would happen at the village. So far her life had been of two extremes: the gentle care of Father Nott and the brutality of her da. Now Martil had given her something else to think about. It was different to Father Nott but was far better than Da. The thought of trying something else again had her feeling sick. Thoughts like these kept her occupied and they made better time than usual, especially as a nervous Martil unconsciously hastened Tomon along. So it was before noon when they reached the turning for Thest. Despite Darry’s directions, Martil had been concerned he might have missed the marker stone. But when he saw it, it was so obvious he had to stop himself from laughing. Easily the height of a man on horseback, the unusually curved stone even had a smaller stone placed on top—either by fate, or more likely, a villager with a sense of humour. Either way, the resemblance was remarkable.

‘What’s so funny?’ Karia demanded.

Martil remembered the girl had not known her mother, and had been brought up by an old priest.

‘Just something I saw,’ he tried to dismiss.

‘You mean the stone over there that looks like a tit?’ Karia said innocently.

Martil nearly fell off his horse. ‘Wh—what…where did you hear that?’ he spluttered.

‘Oh, Da brought back a woman to the farm, not long before we left. He said she was a hoer but I never saw her do any work with a hoe. She didn’t even go near the fields at all! Anyway, the boys kept asking her to show them her tits, so she would, and they looked a bit like that, only not facing that way.’

Martil had no idea what to say. He did not know whether to try and explain why that was wrong, or just pretend the whole conversation had never happened.

‘Why did they want to keep seeing her tits?’ Karia continued.

Martil sighed. Fighting Berellians was easy compared to this.

‘They shouldn’t have said that, especially with you around. She should not have shown her ti—herself to other people,’ he found himself saying.

‘I thought so,’ Karia agreed. ‘Lots of women came to see Father Nott, and he never asked to see any of their tits.’

‘A wise man,’ Martil said, hoping desperately that was the last comment on the matter.

Despite the prevailing forest, the trail to Thest stayed resolutely in the open, although it traversed every hill and cutting. Martil could see it was designed to keep anyone on it in full view, while providing plenty of opportunities for ambush. Martil expected bandits to appear on the trail at any moment and escort them into the village. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back. The first indication that an ambush was close, he knew from bitter experience, would be the silence of the wildlife. But although they were dangerously close to thick wooded areas, the wildlife stayed obstinately loud. Birds still sang, foxes and rabbits darted out in front of them, even a few deer came to take a look. With every passing mile his tension grew, and he kept looking around, trying to see if anyone was watching them. Nothing seemed to indicate the presence of armed men.

He was checking behind him, when they rode over the crest of a small hill and Karia declared: ‘Here we are!’

Martil spun back, hands going for his swords—only to see they were almost in the middle of the village of Thest. It sat, or perhaps sprawled, across the trail like a sullen old dog, smelling just as bad. The huts he could see were all rough, as was the inn. There was no market area, no church, and certainly no militia post here.

It was all quiet and still. A few scrawny chickens pecked around a stinking manure pile, and a couple of half-starved dogs were fighting over something between two huts. But there were no people in sight. That, more than anything, made Martil nervous.

‘What are we waiting for?’ Karia wanted to know.

Martil did not answer, but heeled Tomon forward. He had not come this far to turn around now. He just rode forward slowly, expecting a crossbow bolt to strike at any moment, making sure Karia was right behind Tomon’s neck, so she was not in as much danger.

Nothing happened. The huts looked, if possible, even worse close up, and the stench of the village was foul.

‘Poo-eee!’ Karia said in disgust, holding her nose. Even Tomon tossed his head.

But nothing else happened. Martil rode Tomon past the first hut and stopped there, peering into the low doorway and the gloom beyond, trying to see movement or the shine of armour. But there was just a chicken, scratching around. The second hut, he told himself. He jumped down off Tomon and darted inside, sword leaping into his hand. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom and his nose far longer to adjust to the smell. But there was nobody in there. It held a small fireplace, a bed, a table and two chairs. They had once been of reasonable quality, but were now filthy, leading Martil to think they were the result of raids. But there was little else. One chair had been knocked over and there were a few plates on the table, one holding the remains of a meal. That was it. It looked as though the owners had left in a hurry.

Martil sheathed his right-hand sword and stepped out. Now he was not afraid of an ambush, but he was wondering where everyone had gone. His nose told him there were no fires burning, the only smells were human and animal waste—and plenty of it.

‘What’s happening?’ Karia asked, from where she still sat on Tomon. The silence was starting to worry her, as well.

‘I don’t know,’ Martil admitted.

He tried to think why the village was like this. It could not be plague; there were no bodies.

The Tetran army? Why had the huts not been burned?

All out on a raid? But where were the women and children?

Slowly, fearing what he might find, Martil moved through the rest of the village. Some of the huts appeared to have been left intact, with clothes, food and possessions. Others appeared to have been cleared out and everything taken. It was a mystery that baffled Martil.

‘Can we go now? This is boring,’ Karia complained.

‘I’ll just check out the inn,’ Martil decided. Like most of the buildings in the village, it was on the verge of falling down. It seemed only dried mud and old ale barrels were keeping it up. He tied Tomon’s reins to the rotting hitching rail, which had half-fallen down at one end. The door was shut, so he drew his right-hand sword and kicked it open. He waited for a second, but nothing sprang out, so he jumped inside, ducking to the right, away from the door, to get his back to the wall in case of a sudden rush. Nothing. It was basically just a large room. A large, smelly room. The stench of stale beer was thick in his throat, while food decayed on filthy plates on even dirtier tables. But there was another smell over all of that. He moved across the room. The bar was simply a couple of old doors, laid on top of some empty barrels. And unless his nose was mistaken, it was also the source of the foul stench that overlaid the other, familiar smells.

Cautiously Martil approached the bar, and peered over quickly. A man lay on his back on an old mattress behind the bar, mouth open, and a thin trail of spittle dribbling down. He was snoring very softly. He was middle-aged, although he had obviously seen a few fights in his time. The thin scars on his right forearm told a tale, but not as much as the leather cap-covered stump of a left wrist, where his hand should be. He was wearing fine clothes, of a good weave and cut, although stained with food, drink and other things Martil did not want to think about too much. He had a long nose, a roughly stubbled chin and wispy hair that was tousled into a mop. In short, Martil would have loved to have left him and walked away. But as he was the only person alive in the village, and he needed answers, there was only one thing for it.

He looked around and saw an old tankard, half-filled with a murky liquid that smelt vaguely of ale. Rather than go to the well and draw up a bucket of water, he decided that would do. Besides, it wasn’t going to make the smell much worse. He grabbed it and tossed the contents into the man’s face, then stepped back, waiting for a reaction. He had to admit, it was spectacular.

With a howl, the man leapt to his feet, wiped the worst of the liquid off his face with his hand, smelt his hand and let out an even bigger howl.

‘You bastard! That was my own piss!’ he roared. ‘I’ve got a mind to…’ His hand started down towards his belt, where an empty knife scabbard sat, then stopped, partly because there was nothing there, partly because Martil had drawn both of his swords. He changed mental gears and continued smoothly ‘…offer you a drink and politely discuss preferred ways to wake a man up. Or the political situation in Norstalos, should you prefer.’ His voice was a little hoarse but Martil could tell two things—he had a trace of a Norstaline accent still, and he had been educated. An ordinary bandit did not talk like that.

Martil smiled at him. There was no humour in it. ‘Who are you and what happened to this village?’ he demanded.

‘Before I start confessing to anything, who’s doing the asking?’ the man asked suspiciously, then added hastily as Martil twirled his swords: ‘I was just wondering.’

‘Zorva’s balls, I’m not in the Norstaline or Tetran armies, nor am I a militiaman. But I will have some answers,’ Martil said in frustration.

The man looked at the swords and shrugged. ‘I am Conal and as to what happened here, that could take a while to explain.’ The man wiped an odorous drip off his cheek and shuddered. ‘Do you mind if I have a wash first, and do you have anything to eat?’

Martil looked at him with distaste. ‘By all means have a wash. As to the food, that depends on what you can tell me of the fate of Danir the Destroyer. The quality of the food depends on the quality of the information. I have news that will interest him.’

‘I doubt that,’ Conal snorted. ‘But if my news is worth food, I hope you’ve brought fine beef and a better cook, for I have a tale worthy of a great meal.’ He looked around hungrily and scratched his crotch industriously.

‘You sell it well enough and we shall see.’

Not wanting to let Conal out of his sight, he followed the man out of the inn. If Conal was surprised to see a small girl sitting on a tall horse, he said nothing, just stumbled around the side of the inn, towards the village well.

‘Who’s that? He smells!’ Karia announced loudly.

Certainly loud enough for Conal to hear, and turn back. ‘Well, so would you, if someone had just thrown your own piss all over you,’ he grumbled.

‘Did you have a bath in your own wee?’ Karia thought that was hilarious. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am the last of the Destroyer’s men, Conal the Cowardly, at your service.’ He bowed low.

‘Not much of a title,’ Martil observed.

‘I’m thinking of changing it,’ Conal admitted.

Several buckets of water did little to improve Conal’s general appearance, but they did seem to help the smell a little. He changed into fresh clothes—although they were only a marginal improvement over what he had been wearing. Then he drank deeply from a last bucket of water before going around the back to the stinking latrine pit and squatting for an age, accompanying himself with a chorus of grunts, groans and exhortations.

Martil moved Karia and Tomon further away, but it was impossible to block out the noise, despite his best efforts to talk over them at Karia.

‘Can you please keep it down!’ he finally roared, when Karia’s questions and giggles got too much for him.

‘Just letting you know I’m not trying to run away,’ Conal called back cheerfully.

Finally, the old bandit appeared around the side of the inn, pulling his trousers back up. ‘Any chance of some food?’ he called out.

‘I’m not hungry any more,’ Martil told him.

Martil had him drag the cleanest table and three chairs out into the fresher air, then handed over an oatcake and a strip of dried beef. Karia sat down and tucked into an apple, while Martil just sat and watched the man wolf down the food.

‘So, what happened here?’ Martil asked.

Conal swallowed his mouthful and belched loudly. Karia giggled and Martil ostentatiously laid his swords on the table.

‘It’s a funny tale,’ Conal began hastily, ‘started a few days ago. You obviously know this is Danir the Destroyer’s base. Three days ago he rides out with his men, as usual, planning to hit a farm on the other side of the border that we’d been scouting for a week.’

‘We?’

Conal waved the stump of his left hand around. ‘Can’t ride and swing a sword. I just run the inn for Danir.’

‘Go on,’ Martil said, his face expressionless.

‘But they weren’t back by dawn, as they usually would have been. We were starting to think about going to look for them, when three men rode in, looking like they had been dragged through a regiment of Berellians backwards. All had been cut, and one had a knife in the guts that killed him before the day was out. We all wanted to know what had happened, so they told us. On the way to the farm, one of the scouts had spotted six men riding at night, formed up around a seventh man, like they were guarding him. Well, including the scout, Danir had twenty-seven men with him. Six guards, they couldn’t stand up to that. And travelling at night, away from the road—it had to be something valuable they were carrying. So Danir set an ambush and charged in.’

‘Only they weren’t ordinary guards,’ Martil said flatly.

Conal chuckled. ‘You’ve been around a bit, I see. No, they weren’t, because they fought like demons. Danir probably should have cut and run, but he was a prideful man who never liked to lose. And any man that rode with him was terrified of the bastard. You didn’t leave a fight until he told you, or you got your guts slowly ripped out later. At the end of it, there were just seven men left alive, including Danir, one of his sons—and the man the six had been protecting. So Danir tells him to hand over his valuables and he might live. And do you know what the man did then?’

‘Turned into a dragon?’ Karia asked.

Conal roared with laughter, showing plenty of yellowing teeth.

‘No, he’s holding two knives, just a pair of knives, although he’d already killed five men with them during the fight. He throws them, kills Danir and the man next to him. Danir’s son sees he’s unarmed, so he and the other three swarm in, only this man pulls out two more daggers, kills one more and leaves the last in the guts of Danir’s son before he gets cut down. So there’s two unwounded men, and another who’s as good as dead, out of twenty-seven. And do you know what they found when they searched the bodies?’

‘They were all elves?’ Karia guessed.

Conal laughed again. ‘You have a wonderful imagination, princess,’ he chuckled.

‘I’m not a princess, I’m Karia,’ she told him.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you. I thought someone as pretty as you had to be a princess,’ he smiled.

‘Just get on with it,’ Martil growled.

Conal took a gulp of water. ‘They were soldiers. Wearing black surcoats carrying the double sword badge of Duke Gello, with some sort of crown above it.’

‘Means they were part of his personal guard,’ Martil agreed.

‘But the best bit was, the last man to die, the one that used those daggers to such effect, he had a sword in his bag. Imagine that! Fighting for your life but you don’t draw your sword, you just use a dagger! Why didn’t he use his sword?’

‘I don’t know. It was blunt?’ Karia guessed.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ Conal said, then gulped when he saw Martil’s face. ‘First, I have to tell you what happened to the village,’ he added hurriedly. After a long moment, Martil nodded at him, so Conal continued. ‘So the two men took the valuables, which wasn’t much, and rode back here with Danir’s dying son, Ferg. Took them a bit longer, because wounded men don’t travel too easily. When they got back here and told everyone that Danir was dead and his band destroyed, there was a fair bit of panic. Folks in these parts, and especially across the Norstaline border, aren’t real fond of the Destroyer. So, with no Danir, and more importantly, no fighting men to keep the area terrified of us, we could see an angry mob come calling. So the villagers took what they could and left that day.’

‘And what of Danir’s family? Where did they go?’ Martil asked sharply, wanting to know one way or the other if the option of giving Karia back to some of her family was still there.

‘His wife ran away years ago. When he wanted one of the women in the village, he just took them. You didn’t argue with him. As to his sons—one was killed on the raid, the other came back with a dagger in his guts and is buried out the back of this place.’ Conal shrugged.

Martil realised he would be looking after Karia and wondered, again, what the old priest had seen. Then he put aside that thought to return to the mystery here.

‘The two men who had returned with the prize? The last of Danir’s gang? What of them?’

Conal sighed. ‘They fought over it and killed each other. Or rather, the victor died of his wounds the next day. I had to bury them.’

‘So why did you stay?’ Martil felt there was something missing about the story. ‘I thought you were a coward?’

‘Never said that. That’s what they called me, because I wouldn’t ride on raids,’ Conal protested. ‘I stayed because I couldn’t decide what to do with it.’

‘With what? Tell me now,’ Martil snarled. His patience was just about worn out.

‘I have to show it to you. Trust me, you wouldn’t believe it otherwise. And I’d go and get it, only you might get the wrong idea. You’d better follow me.’

‘If this is a trap…’ Martil warned.

‘Then I’m even more stupid than I look. Come on.’

Conal led the way back into the inn; Karia stayed in the doorway, holding her hand over her nose.

Moving with almost exaggerated care, Conal dumped his straw mattress onto the bar, to reveal a long, cloth-wrapped bundle underneath.

Martil sheathed his swords. ‘Back away and put your hands—sorry, your hand—on your head.’

He waited until Conal had done so, then bent down and picked up the bundle. Almost as soon as he picked it up, he knew it was a sword, although it felt the wrong weight for one so large.

‘See what I mean?’ Conal said miserably. ‘I stayed because I had no idea what to do with it.’

Martil shook away the cloth, which seemed to be a soldier’s cloak, and then everything became clear to him. It was indeed a sword, in a beautiful jewelled scabbard. When he stripped off the last of the cloth it seemed to light up the entire room, turning the squalid inn into something bright and warm, and even seemed to take the edge off the smell.

He was holding the Dragon Sword of Norstalos.

Cezar was heartily sick of Norstaline inns by now. After his early successes, and feeling as if he would catch up with Captain Martil at any time, he had experienced his first taste of frustration. For some reason, the inns on the main roads had not seen a Ralloran warrior and a little girl—surely the easiest of things to remember. But why should they leave the main road? It was a mystery. Cezar wanted to kill this Martil, sacrifice the girl to Zorva and get back to Berellia. The messages from Onzalez were getting alarming. Make the kill and get out. Time is against you. He had to backtrack, and go a different route before he could find those who remembered them. Still, his chase was drawing to a close. He was two days from the border now and was looking forward to getting his hands on the girl almost as much as he was anticipating the enjoyment of cutting out Martil’s heart.

8

Martil was oblivious to Conal as he stared at the sword. The golden hilt was shaped like a dragon, the wings flared to form the cross-guard, the body was the handle, the head, with two rubies for eyes, twisted its long neck around to embrace the blade, while its tail formed the pommel. The black scabbard was encrusted with jewels, and strange runes written in silver rolled up the side. The village, the inn, the smelly bandit, even Karia all seemed to fade into the background. At that moment he could not say where he was or even who he was. Everything seemed to be about this Sword, as if it had expanded to fill the whole world. All that mattered, all that existed, was the Sword and himself. The eyes on the hilt seemed to sparkle at him and the hilt grew warm in his hand. Without thinking, without any effort, as if he was responding to some compulsion, he drew the blade from the scabbard. It was the most natural thing in the world to do, as if it were the logical, the only possible course of action after picking it up. In fact it would have been wrong not to draw it. The blade came free with a strange hissing noise. It was even more beautiful than the scabbard, a perfect piece of shining steel, which seemed to make even the tawdry inn taproom sparkle. The balance was amazing. His eyes told him he was holding a large sword, but his muscles were telling him it weighed no more than a small knife. He gazed at it, entranced, although the spell was broken by Conal’s babbling.

‘You drew the Sword?’ he gasped, amazed.

‘You drew the Sword!’ he cried in shock.

‘You drew the Sword,’ he moaned in horror.

‘What are you going on about? Of course I’ve drawn the bloody sword,’ Martil dismissed him.

‘Don’t you understand?’ Conal gasped. ‘Don’t you know what you have done?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll put it back,’ Martil shrugged.

‘You can’t put it back! You’re its wielder now! All of Norstalos has been waiting for one to come along, and now it’s you!’

Something of the pure horror in Conal’s voice started to penetrate Martil’s head.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you never listen to the sagas, the legends about this Sword? What are you, some sort of sheep-shagging Ralloran?’

Martil pointed the Sword towards him. ‘Yes, except for the sheep. But you would be wise not to insult me while I am holding a sword.’ Then he relented a little and remembered the little merchant, Berne. ‘No, I haven’t heard the legends about this sword. As I keep telling you Norstalines, I spent my life fighting the Ralloran Wars and trying to stay alive. Strangely, we never sat around and discussed Norstaline myths and legends. So why don’t you tell me instead of babbling like an idiot?’

‘The blade doesn’t let just anyone draw it. If it thinks you are unworthy, then not even the strongest man in the world could pull it out of the scabbard. But if it thinks you are worthy, then you become its wielder, with all that entails. Although, if you do not live up to its purpose, you will die horribly.’

‘You’re talking as if it were alive. It’s a sword,’ Martil grunted.

‘A sword created by the dragons, forged in secret, using great magics. It can never be used for evil. If a good man draws it and then turns to evil, its magic will destroy him.’

‘How does it define evil? It’s a sword. Swords do what their wielders make them do. How can it tell if you are killing someone who is bad or good?’ Martil argued.

Conal smiled. ‘These are questions that have consumed great thinkers and wizards for centuries. I can only tell you what I know, what every Norstaline child is taught. The Sword knows, because it was made that way. It knows what is in your heart, and can feel it. Once you have drawn it, you are linked with it for the rest of your life. This will be a long one, if you are a good man. Otherwise it will be a short, unpleasant one. In battle it will make you invincible but its true power is how it inspires other good men to stand with you.’

This sounded too much like a saga for Martil’s liking. Saga heroes always triumphed against impossible odds but if half a lifetime of war had taught him anything, it was that notions of good or evil never guaranteed victory. He had heard too many inspirational speeches to believe them now. It was all too much to take in, so he did what he always used to do when things were too grim; tried to find some humour in the situation.

‘So, have I inspired you to follow me?’ he asked Conal.

‘No,’ the old bandit admitted. ‘Now it’s your responsibility, I’d like to run away.’ He considered this for a second. ‘But, to be fair, I’m not a good man.’

A good man. Martil suddenly thought of the dead children of Bellic. Dead at his orders. How could he be considered a good man? He looked around at Karia. She was in his care because of the way he had slaughtered her family. Another black deed. How had the Sword allowed him to draw it? It made no sense—unless there was no magic in the Sword, and it was all a trick to fool the young and the gullible. This was ridiculous. A man could go mad thinking about this.

‘I’ll be heading off then,’ Conal said cautiously, indicating the door. ‘If that’s all right?’

‘What?’

‘Well, you’ve got the Sword, Danir’s dead and I need to go somewhere that’s better for my health. Like southern Aviland. Staying here is likely to prove fatal. If an angry mob doesn’t get you, then Duke Gello will.’

‘Duke Gello?’

‘They were his men carrying the Dragon Sword. And even a half-blind tracker could follow the trail back to here. Think about it. If he went to all the trouble to steal the Sword and spirit it away, he’s not going to baulk at wiping out a few bandits.’

‘What were you thinking of doing with the Sword?’ Martil asked. He was all too aware the time for making decisions was here but he wanted to put it off for as long as possible. He had thought to find answers but now he just had more questions. And a magical sword that the entire bloody country was going crazy about. He could not help but think of Father Nott. Had the old priest seen this?

Conal scratched his chin, making a rasping noise. ‘Well, I hadn’t decided but I know Ferg wanted it sold. He reckoned this Gello would pay almost anything to get the Sword back. I reckon he’d just feed you your balls until you begged for the chance to give him the Sword. No, if you ask me, the only person who would really pay for it is the Queen. But you’d have to be pretty smart to see her without Gello knowing.’

Martil thought carefully. His oath was fulfilled, his future path free to choose. But what about Karia? He doubted she would want to stay with him, although where would she go? He smiled to himself. The queen would pay him probably ten thousand in gold for this sword. For that he could hire several families and let Karia choose the one she liked best. She deserved some happiness. But what of him? He had a vision of a mansion by the northern sea, the one he had dreamed of. He was walking through its large rooms, alone, with only the cries of the murdered children of Bellic to fill its emptiness. He shook himself, trying to blank that out, but the empty feeling inside him remained.

‘What’s happening? I’m bored,’ Karia announced, walking over to him.

‘We’ll be going soon,’ Martil promised automatically. Then he thought about his answer. ‘We might take a trip to Norstalos City. Would you like that?’

‘Isn’t that where Father Nott went?’

‘Yes, it is. We’ve got to get rid of the Sword but after that, you might even be able to visit him.’ And I’ll be having some words with him, he added silently.

‘Great! I need to tell him that I’ll be all right, that you’ll be taking care of me.’

Martil looked into those big brown eyes and saw nothing but honesty staring back at him. A few days ago that prospect would have filled him with horror but now, strangely, it sounded good.

‘Do you mean that?’ he asked.

‘Of course I do. I’ve been thinking. Now Uncle Danir is gone, I’ll be staying with you. You can buy me more dresses, and new dolls, maybe a horse of my own, some chickens to look after, and we can play games, especially catch, I like playing catch, and you can brush my hair, read me stories, maybe show me how I can read too, and sing me to sleep.’

‘Is that all?’ Martil could not help but ask.

‘You can look after me.’

Martil felt an unexpected surge of affection and happiness. As a war captain he had walked down streets as flower petals were strewn at his feet. He’d had women hurling themselves at him, or more accurately, under him. Men had wanted to shake his hand and bow to him.

But he had never expected a little girl to say she wanted him to look after her. It was a compliment he had never had, never sought and never expected to get. He was surprised to find how much it meant to him.

Feeling happier than he had in years, he went to kneel down, so grasped the hilt of the Sword to move it out of his way—and when he looked down at the Sword, he could have sworn the dragon on the hilt was looking at him. The eyes were definitely sparkling. Or had they just caught the light from the doorway? He put it from his mind, it was irrelevant. What was he to do? When he had left Rallora, he had sworn never to get involved in wars or fighting. Being named the wielder of the mythical Dragon Sword was not likely to lead to the quiet life he had imagined. But he could hardly throw it away if that would mean his death. That was exactly the sort of thing the do-gooding dragons might do. Bloody flying magical pests. How could he have been so stupid as to draw it? He could not think what to do next, which was ironic, because he had made his reputation as a man always prepared to make tough decisions. He slumped into a seat.

‘Martil, I think we should take the Sword back to its real owner,’ Karia said softly.

‘What? Why do you say that?’ Martil felt he needed direction. And after what Karia had said to him, he was certainly willing to listen to her.

‘It’s what Father Nott would do. He’d say this was stolen, so it should be returned.’

‘Father Nott, eh?’ Martil was a bit reluctant to do anything the priest suggested, given the way things had turned out so far.

At another time Martil would have dismissed her suggestion out of hand. But he just felt lost. Karia was at least suggesting a way forward. Besides, when she had said she wanted to stay with him, it had made him feel happier than he had in years. Now he wanted to make her happy. Not exactly the best reason in the world to make a potentially life-changing and life-threatening decision, but the way he felt now, it was good enough.

Thinking aloud, he said, ‘We should return the Sword to the Queen. If she is the rightful owner, then she should get the Sword back. And she will know how it really works and know if I am truly the wielder, or if that is just a legend.’

That was the heart of the matter. He could not just walk away, worrying that some magical sword was going to suck the life out of him. He should have known that running away never solved anything. He had run away from Rallora and look where it had landed him now.

‘And, yes,’ he added, ‘if it was stolen, it should be returned.’

‘Not exactly a motto I have lived my life by,’ Conal admitted, ‘but anything’s worth trying once.’

‘Glad to hear you say that,’ Martil observed wryly. ‘We’ll stay here the night, then ride on to Norstalos City. How about you?’

The old bandit scratched his chin. These past couple of days had given him plenty of time to think. Survival over the past few years in this village had been about not thinking too much, so it had been a struggle. He could see nothing but trouble attached to the Dragon Sword but equally, he wanted to know more about it. Besides, what did he have to lose? His true life had ended years ago. This was just a shadow existence. But he could not talk about that as yet.

‘I might come with you. There’s nothing for me here. Besides, having slept on it for a few nights, I’d like to see what it does,’ he said, deliberately casually.

Having agreed to come along, Conal insisted on sleeping in the inn for the night. Martil had no intention of spending any more time with that smell, so he made Conal help him clean out one of the huts.

‘What happened to Danir’s hoard? Did the villagers take away piles of gold?’ Martil asked, as they sat down to a stew he had made from oats, dried meat, salt and water.

‘Who was he stealing from? Farmers and merchants too poor to hire enough guards to scare us off. We had food enough, but gold? Any we took was spent by Danir and his sons. The bandit life is hardly what they sing about in the sagas. I mean, do you think we’d live in a shithole like this if we were all rich?’

Martil could not help but agree. Even so, he noticed Conal had dug up a small bag, which he now kept fastened to his belt.

‘Just a few silvers I saved, over the years,’ he shrugged in reply to Martil’s unspoken question. ‘A man needs something to live on in his dotage, to avoid the chill of winter and the pangs of hunger. Speaking of which, another bowlful, thanks.’

‘You do realise I’ll be charging you for this,’ Martil told him, as Conal helped himself to a second serving of stew.

Conal stared at him in mock horror. ‘After I gave you the Dragon Sword?’

Martil ignored him.

The village also yielded one final surprise. Conal disappeared into a shed and came back with a rancid-looking donkey, which smelt even worse than he did.

‘Her name’s Noxie. She’s a loyal friend, even if she is a bit loud sometimes,’ Conal explained.

Martil waved away his explanation and hoped some fresh air might improve the animal’s fragrance. The only good thing about it was it meant they could go faster than Conal’s walking pace.

Karia had been excited about camping out in the hut, and to celebrate the honour of her letting Martil look after her, she had wanted to play with the ball, the top and the dice, then made him tell her stories and sing her his silly song, then tell her how he would take care of her and where they would live before she would even think about going to sleep. After the stress of the day, Martil enjoyed immersing himself in it. Conal watched them silently for a while, then walked slowly back to the inn and shut the door.

Cezar was beginning to feel confident once more. The inn at the border was an obvious place for Martil to stop, but was not an ideal place to kill him. Somewhere quiet, in the country, would be better—somewhere he could take his time. All he had to do was wait at the inn until Martil arrived, then follow him out. One man could not stay up all night, every night. Sooner or later he would sleep—and then Cezar could strike. And he was only a day’s ride from that inn.

Martil yawned as he rode. Sleep had not come easily to him the night before, even with the dolly that Karia had given him to look after. He had ridden into Thest half-expecting to fight for his life and now he was riding out with the Dragon Sword and an old bandit in tow. It was a strange exchange. Also, he could not shake the thought that the Sword was somehow watching him, somehow measuring him—and no doubt finding him wanting.

Thinking about Conal made him turn around in the saddle. Had the Sword’s magic worked on him? He looked at Conal, who was ferreting around industriously in his right nostril. Conal finally extracted his finger, inspected the contents with a sigh of satisfaction, and then flicked it away.

It would have to have very powerful magic, Martil thought. Questions about the Sword were too big for him to answer. He just had to hold to a course of action and see where it took him.

First, get the Sword to the Queen, and worry about the rest later.

Karia was delighted to be going away from the village. No more being a bandit, no more hiding out in forests and caves. That thought had scared her. Now she was going to stay with Martil, who could be silly, but was willing to do anything for her. Not even Father Nott had been happy to provide voices for her dolls or spend so long playing catch. Now he would buy them a large farm; she would get a pony and chickens, and fluffy lambs to look after, as well as more dollies and lots of books. Father Nott could come and visit as well!

Conal was happy enough to follow. Even in this backwater, he had heard of Captain Martil, the Butcher of Bellic. Yet he had drawn the Dragon Sword. That said something about the power of redemption. He had to believe in it. Serving scum like Danir the Destroyer had been a source of shame, so much so that he had forced himself not to think about what he was doing, instead just focusing on surviving each day. But when you were woken up by a tankard of your own piss, he thought, the only way to go was up. Conal feared he had little to offer. Worse, seeing Karia had stirred memories he thought were long buried. His twin daughters would have looked like her and probably would have been just as cheeky, had they lived. Thinking about them was too painful. Far better to slip back into the character he had adopted over the past few years with the bandit band. He would stay like that for now. It was probably safer. And he was sick of riding in silence, lost in his thoughts. They were not to be enjoyed.

So he encouraged Noxie to greater speed, catching up with Tomon. He regaled them with tales of his exploits, of coaches robbed, of women taken for ransom—who subsequently did not want to be returned to their husbands—and duels fought and won.

‘We’re not so different, you and I. Conal the Cowardly and the Butcher of Bellic,’ the old bandit summed himself up finally.

Martil watched him scratch enthusiastically around his crotch, before sitting up slightly in the old saddle he had belted around the donkey and letting out a thunderous belch.

‘What a wonderful thought,’ he sighed.

‘No, hear me out on this,’ Conal insisted. ‘Both of us have reputations that do us no justice. At one point I was a father and a husband, respected, a sergeant of the militia no less. But to Norstalines around here, I am something they would wipe off the soles of their boots…’ Conal trailed off, wondering why he had said that. He had not meant to let slip who he had once been. Luckily no-one seemed to notice.

Martil was struck by a thought. ‘You’re not a known bandit in Norstalos, are you? One who is to be arrested on sight, along with any companions?’

‘Maybe ten years ago, when I still had all my teeth and limbs,’ Conal shrugged, waving his stump around casually. ‘And perhaps when my face didn’t look as if a donkey had sat on it.’

Karia giggled at this but he proved to be correct. The militia gave them no more than a cursory search. Martil had been concerned what they might say when they looked in his bags and found the Dragon Sword, so he had hidden it in plain view by wearing it, the magnificent scabbard concealed by his old leather one, the hilt tucked up under his tunic. His spare sword sat in his bags, but they ignored what was obviously an ordinary sword. Conal barely got a second glance, although perhaps that was because they did not want to be around his flatulent donkey any longer than necessary.

Darry’s inn was far quieter this time, the various merchants and their guards having moved on, so he was glad of the business. Martil flatly refused to pay for Conal, so the old bandit booked himself a place in the common sleeping room, where a score of beds lined the walls. Martil took the same room he and Karia had used earlier. He used the opportunity to switch swords again, so the Dragon Sword stayed safely hidden in their room while they went downstairs to eat—and to find out the latest gossip from Darry. After an initial coldness, the innkeeper could not help but warm up. After all, he wanted to know what had happened in Thest.

‘Danir won’t be doing anything again. He’s dead,’ Martil said flatly. ‘Killed in an ambush gone wrong and the remnants of his band scattered to the four winds. Thest is deserted now.’

‘What? That’s the best news I’ve heard in years! But how do you know for sure?’ Darry’s ecstatic face suddenly creased in worry, as if the news was too good to be true.

Martil hesitated for a moment. He had no wish to see Conal hanged, although no doubt the old bandit had earned it over the years.

‘When I arrived there, I found Danir’s son, dying from a wound to the belly. He told me what had happened,’ he said carefully.

Darry stared at him in surprise, then whooped with delight and slapped the bar with his hand.

‘That calls for a drink!’ he laughed. ‘With that bastard dead and his gang of scum gone, the merchants will be back, with plenty of coin to spend! Tell me, did you have anything to do with their disappearance?’

Martil had no wish to add further verses to the sagas about him, although he had the nasty suspicion Darry would be telling tales of Captain Martil and his Ralloran mercenaries wiping out the evil Danir.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ he assured him.

‘A stroke of luck for you—and the little girl—and for me. Why, it almost makes up for the bad news coming out of the capital!’

‘What’s that?’ Martil asked, as casually as he could.

‘Dragon Sword’s still missing, of course. Now nobody has seen the Queen for days and Duke Gello has declared the army is needed to restore order. He is ruling under martial law. Martial law in Norstalos! Can you believe it? If you ask me,’ and here Darry lowered his tone, ‘Duke Gello may be trying to take control.’

Martil tried to hide a cynical smile, but something must have shown in his face, because Darry sniffed and leaned back. ‘This sort of thing may be old to you, but this is Norstalos! We don’t do that! And it would never be happening if we still had the Dragon Sword.’

‘What of the Queen? Is she a prisoner?’ Martil asked urgently.

Darry snorted. ‘Do I look like a bard? I’ve told you all I know—and want to know! Now, will you be wanting dinner?’

Karia did not understand the talk about martial order. She had bigger things on her mind. And as soon as they sat down, she wanted to confront Martil.

‘So, where are we going to live?’ Karia wanted to know.

Martil shrugged. He was not thinking that far ahead.

‘Well, if the Queen gives us money, we’ll buy a place by the sea. Then we can keep a few animals, do some fishing, and you can go to school.’

‘I’d like that. Father Nott told me a farm could be fun, but I didn’t have any with Da and the boys.’

Martil shook his head at the resilience of the young. But, thinking about it, he had seen it often enough in the wars. A child, having lost one or perhaps both of its parents, managed to find a new home and learn to laugh and play again.

‘But this school. What will they do there?’ Karia asked sharply.

While Martil tried to explain, Darry bustled over with their dinner, which was a fine distraction. As usual, Karia devoured everything placed before her, as well as the dessert of an apple pie. He had a healthy appreciation of her abilities as an eater but tonight she seemed to be getting some serious competition from a man at the next table. He had staggered in and almost fallen into his seat before ordering food and drink. He appeared to be not much older than Martil, and was quite thin, with long black hair tied back from his face. He had bright blue eyes, a jutting chin and a slightly over-large nose. He did not appear to be particularly happy, not smiling or talking to anyone. But despite his leanness, or perhaps because of it, he managed to put away a huge amount of the stew and three helpings of the pie.

‘Who is that?’ Martil asked Darry, as the innkeeper cleared away their plates.

The man’s tunic and trousers were expensive, and of a deep purple colour that was unusual enough to stand out. Martil at first thought he was some sort of minor noble—he had that look about him. But he travelled with no companions or sycophants, which in Martil’s experience was the usual entourage of such people.

‘He’s a wizard,’ Darry whispered. ‘Been popping in and out of here almost all day.’

Martil looked and sure enough, there was a long wizard’s staff, propped up against the table.

Intrigued, Martil looked again at the man. His hands were delicate and long-fingered but his face, while relatively young, showed stress and worry in every line. He was also quite pale, as if he had spent a great deal of time indoors.

‘A wizard!’ Karia squealed. ‘Can we go and talk to him about magic? You said we could find a wizard and ask him!’

Martil reflected there was nothing wrong with her memory. Plenty had happened since that lunch with the merchant Berne, but to her it might as well have been earlier that day.

‘He hasn’t finished eating,’ he temporised. But he knew it was going to be futile to try to stop her. Perhaps if he offered to buy the wizard a few drinks, he would consent to talk.

‘Why has he eaten so much?’ Karia asked.

‘Probably because he has cast magic recently—it takes a great deal of energy,’ Martil guessed.

She nodded and almost bounced up and down in her seat. ‘He’s finished!’

She grabbed his hand and almost dragged him over to the wizard’s table, then was struck by her usual bout of shyness and hid behind Martil’s leg.

‘Excuse me. I am Martil and this is Karia. She would love to learn more about magic and—once she gets over her shyness—she’d have a thousand questions for you. May I buy you a drink and talk with you?’

The wizard looked up and Martil kept a warm, friendly expression on his face. The wizard glanced at them.

‘No. Go away,’ he said coldly.

Martil’s smile dropped away instantly and he had to make an effort to control his anger.

‘I asked you politely. And I thought you wizards had a duty to spread the knowledge of magic,’ he snapped.

At this the wizard’s face darkened with anger.

‘Do not speak to me of duty! I am on a mission of the highest importance! Now leave me be, peasant, or I might decide to give you an extra nose—right above your arse!’

Martil struggled to resist the temptation to punch the wizard and then shove his staff up, as the Ralloran expression went, where the sun never shone. He heard the inn door open and people walking in but his back was to the door and his attention was focused on the wizard.

‘Before you reached your staff, I’d have your hands lying on the floor. And how would you cast your magics then, eh?’ Martil growled, but became aware the threat was being spoiled because the wizard’s eyes were focused on a point behind him.

He was tempted to turn around but had seen men fall for that old trick before and finish up with their guts ripped out.

‘Move out of the way, peasant! We shall take care of this errant wizard for you. Stand aside, for soldiers of Norstalos,’ a strangely familiar voice said behind him.

‘What business have you with the Queen’s Magician?’ the wizard asked coldly, again looking past Martil.

‘There is a warrant for your arrest, signed by the new regent, Duke Gello himself,’ the voice announced proudly.

‘I do not acknowledge the authority of Gello. And how could you know it was an arrest warrant? Gello’s dogs usually can’t read and write,’ the wizard sniffed contemptuously.

‘You’re going back to Norstalos City trussed like a chicken!’ the voice threatened, then roared at Martil. ‘Move out of the way, peasant!’

Martil had stood still, firstly shocked he had been about to pick a fight with the Queen’s Magician, the most powerful wizard in the country, and secondly because he was trying to think where he had heard that voice before. He sensed, rather than saw, a hand moving to shove him aside, so he stepped back and around, keeping himself between the speaker and Karia—and looked into the flushed and angry face of Lieutenant Havrick of the Norstaline Light Cavalry.

‘You!’ Havrick screeched, staggering backwards. He stared from Martil to the wizard and back again, then his face twisted into a wild smile. ‘It all becomes clear now! Plotting treason with the Queen’s Magician, were you! Well, you’ll hang beside the other traitors!’

Martil was horribly aware that Havrick was unlikely to listen to reason at this point. Still, he had to try.

‘Look, this is all a mistake. I was just passing through and merely tried to ask a question of the wizard. We have nothing in common and had you not arrived, we might have come to blows,’ Martil said reasonably.

‘A likely story!’ Havrick sneered. ‘Do you expect me to believe it is mere coincidence that you, a man who is prepared to draw a sword on an officer of the crown, just happened to meet up with the Queen’s Magician, Barrett, a wanted man? That you were not plotting treason? You probably have the Dragon Sword up in your room!’

In the deep silence that followed, Martil forced a weak laugh. ‘Very amusing. But as I am a Ralloran, I do not see how I can commit treason in Norstalos.’

‘Oh, I intend to find out,’ Havrick sneered. He was jubilant. He had searched the southern roads for this Ralloran for two days, before being ordered to rush here as part of a massive hunt for Barrett the wizard. Now revenge was at hand.

Martil’s anger, that had threatened to bubble over against Barrett, now surged to the surface again. His swords flashed into the air.

‘Come and take me, you bastard!’ he snarled.

‘This is your last chance,’ Havrick warned, but took a pace back so his men were with him.

Martil hoped the wizard was going to do something but the man just sat there, a small smile on his face, as if he found it amusing that his two tormentors had turned on each other.

Havrick glanced left and right. He knew, after that incident on the road, that he had to do something to regain his reputation. Now he saw his chance to redeem himself. Capture these two and all would be forgiven. This was obviously some plot. Unmasking it might bring a reward from the Duke!

‘This is for my sword!’ Havrick screamed and lunged at Martil.

Without thinking about it, Martil blocked the blow, then stepped in and hammered the hilt of his right-hand sword into Havrick’s face. The officer’s nose broke with a crack, he went one way and his sword went flying the other.

The other five soldiers tried to rush in but the tables and chairs obstructed their progress. Martil blocked one blow, then managed to strike a second soldier in the face with the pommel of his left-hand sword. This time it caught the man on the point of his jaw and he went down like a poleaxed steer, tripping another man behind him.

Martil jumped in and kicked the man who had tripped in the head; the soldier’s head snapped back and rammed into a table. The other three soldiers slowly circled around, trying to find a clear way to get at Martil. For his part, Martil prepared to kick a chair into the path of one, and then kill the other two.

Then the wizard stood, his staff in his hand. He murmured something, and then pointed at the closest two soldiers. A flash of light brighter than the sun leapt from his free hand, the one not holding the staff, and struck the two men in the face. Blinded, they dropped their swords and clutched at their eyes, screaming.

The last soldier edged back towards the bar, suddenly outnumbered. Conal, who was sitting at the bar, measured his approach, then brought his metal tankard of ale down on the man’s head. The soldier went down like a sack of turnips and the ale flew everywhere.

Conal looked at it mournfully. ‘That’s one ale I’ll never see again,’ he sighed.

Martil ignored him and instead turned to Barrett. ‘I thank you for your help,’ he said warmly. As always after a fight, the anger was gone.

‘And I thank you for yours,’ the wizard grunted, leaning on his staff for support.

Martil paused then, unsure of what to do now. Attacking the soldiers had given him a whole new range of problems. For a start, he would not be able to sleep here tonight. And what would the militia do? There were enough of them at this post to create plenty of trouble.

‘We should go. The blindness will not last much longer, and then you will have to fight again,’ Barrett warned. ‘I don’t want to do that.’

Martil agreed. He scooped up Karia and ran for the stairs.

‘Leave your bags! We don’t have time!’ Barrett snapped, but Martil ignored him. Karia was clinging to him, and he had to fumble for the key before he got in the room and grabbed the heavy saddlebags with his free hand. He raced out the back to the stables, where Conal was trying to saddle his donkey and Barrett was leading out a black horse with a cavalry saddle.

‘You should have left those. We can get supplies and bags from anywhere,’ Barrett told him.

‘Not ones like these,’ Martil told him, putting down both bags and child to saddle Tomon.

Saddling a horse was a job he had done countless times, but the knowledge a dozen militia might turn up, urged to violence by Havrick, was enough to make the job suddenly far more difficult and frustrating. The buckles would not work properly and Tomon kept shifting around. Martil had to bite his tongue to stop swearing.

‘Where are we going?’ Karia asked, picking up his mood and feeling afraid.

‘Somewhere safe. I’ll lead you there,’ Barrett said reassuringly.

Finally he was ready and they rode out of the inn’s yard, Barrett leading the way, Conal’s donkey going as fast as its little legs could carry it, Karia riding with Martil.

‘Slow down now,’ Conal urged as they came up to the village gate.

‘What?’ Barrett asked.

‘It’ll look more natural and they won’t try to stop us,’ Conal explained.

The gate guard was a pair of militia, and sure enough they barely looked up from their fire as the men and child rode out at a gentle pace. It was a smart move but going so slow was amazingly frustrating.

‘Time to speed up a little, I think,’ Barrett said quietly.

Just then the feared cry came: ‘After them!’

Martil looked back to see Havrick and a dozen militia at the gate. But none had horses and, luckily, none had a bow. They were milling around while Havrick was ordering them to fetch their horses and chase after the fugitives. He urged Tomon into a trot and they disappeared around a bend while the militia were still in disarray.

‘They can’t catch us,’ he said confidently, then looked over at Conal, who had to work hard to make Noxie keep up with them. ‘Although they might, if it’s a long chase.’

‘Not far to go,’ Barrett said.

In fact they rode barely a mile up the road before they came to a side track, obviously rarely used.

‘In here,’ Barrett urged.

As soon as Conal was safely off the road, and they were all a few yards up the track, Barrett turned back and gestured at the road. Instantly the hoofprints disappeared from the ground, grass grew over the bare dirt and the bushes expanded to block the track and make it appear as if there was nothing there.

He led them about a mile up the track, which twisted and turned and rose slightly, until they arrived at a large cabin. By then the wizard was slumped over his horse’s neck. He reached out and the cabin door, which had no handle, swung open.

‘Safe here. Wake me in morning,’ he mumbled, then slid off his horse into an ungainly heap.

Conal took care of the horses while Martil carried Karia, the wizard, and then the supplies into the hut. It was surprisingly clean and comfortable, with a pair of beds along one wall, a large table with chairs in the centre and various cupboards surrounding a fireplace and a small stove along the facing wall. It smelt fresh and clean, with a hint of lavender. Martil dropped the wizard onto one bed, put an excited Karia into the other and then got a fire going. He was just thinking about what to do next when Conal walked in.

‘I know we’re back from the road, and the track is hidden, but what if they smell the smoke?’ Conal warned.

Martil cursed and put the fire out. ‘Good thinking.’

‘Aye, well, I had to dodge pursuit once or twice in my earlier career,’ Conal admitted.

‘Your earlier career? What do you do now?’ Martil laughed.

‘Why, I’m a hero now. Rescuing wizards, fighting soldiers. All in a day’s work now.’

Martil ignored him and dug out a couple of oil lanterns, which would supply light without smoke.

‘What happens now?’ Conal wanted to know.

‘Well, we wait for him to wake up. If he is the Queen’s Magician, then he can certainly help us get to the Queen,’ Martil pointed out.

‘Or land us in a dungeon. One day of being respectable and I’m on the run again!’

‘Look at it from my point of view,’ Martil told him. ‘I was heading north to find some peace and buy myself a little place by the water. Now I have the entire army of a ruthless usurper after me, and all I have to help me is a little girl obsessed with making me play dolls, a magical Sword that will kill me if I’m not careful, a sleepy wizard and a one-armed ex-bandit.’

‘You are one lucky bastard,’ Conal told him.

They fell silent, then Karia sat up in bed.

‘Can you sing to me? A different song this time. I’m bored with the other one.’

Martil sat on the bed beside her and tried to think of something to sing. Nothing was coming to him, so he just made lines up.

‘Time to sleep, close those weary eyes,

Time for dreams, after lullabies.

We’ll see you when the night is done

We’ll see you when it’s light

Rest now, Karia, beautiful one, sweet dreams be yours tonight.

Sweet dreams be yours tonight, my dear,

We’ll see you when the morning’s here.

So close your eyes and go to sleep, good night, sleep tight.’

Martil was pleasantly surprised to find he had actually made up a bit of a rhyme, and even more surprised to find it had worked and Karia had fallen asleep.

He turned to see Conal looking at him with a strange expression on his face.

‘What’s the matter? Haven’t you heard out-of-tune singing before?’ Martil almost growled.

Conal took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I used to sing my kids to sleep,’ he finally admitted.

‘Where are they?’

Conal hesitated before replying. It was not a story he was proud of, but after so many years, he found he now wanted to tell it to someone. It was strange, it was almost a compulsion.

‘I was a militia sergeant. Small village. Then my girls and my wife came down with the fever. The nearest apothecary was a day’s ride away and they needed help immediately. So I called in the local priest. Bastard said he wouldn’t do anything unless I paid him in gold! He knew I didn’t have any. Militia sergeant doesn’t pay much, you know. Course I knew where to lay my hands on some gold. So I used my sword to get me some. Priest said it wasn’t enough, so I stole some more. The bastard still wouldn’t help but when I had my sword halfway up his cassock he explained quickly enough. Seems he wasn’t much of a priest, so Aroaril wasn’t granting his prayers. Instead of telling anyone, he thought he could just demand gold for healing, knowing nobody could come up with gold, so he’d never have to come up with the healing. So I took the gold back and planned to find a real priest.’ Conal paused for a few seconds, then wiped his face with his only hand. ‘Only when I got home, my wife and kids were dead. My two militiamen found me blubbering over their bodies. I thought they had come to help me but the priest had claimed I’d robbed him. They had come to arrest me. I looked up from the bodies of my girls to see that smug bastard laughing at me. So I stood with my sword in my hand and in moments there were three bodies to add to those of my wife and daughters. In one instant I had gone from a respected militia sergeant to a murderer and thief. No going back from there. So I took to the road and spent the next twenty years getting drunk, hitting people and stealing what I needed to survive.’

‘So why didn’t you stop?’ Martil found himself asking.

‘Because I didn’t care if I lived or died.’

That resonated with Martil and he looked anew at the old bandit.

‘So why are you here now? You could have left us at Thest, or just sat at the bar when those soldiers tried to arrest me.’

Conal shrugged. ‘Wish I knew. I had a feeling I should go with you and the girl. Wasn’t like I had much to stay for.’

‘Is that it?’ Martil asked, disappointed.

‘And once I started, I thought maybe this was a chance to make up for some of what I’ve done in the past,’ Conal said softly.

Martil shuddered. ‘You can never make up for some things,’ he said, mostly to himself.

‘Aye, but that’s no reason not to try.’ Conal coughed guiltily. He felt as though he had taken a burden off his shoulders. But that was no reason to start hugging the man or go off dancing with the elves. ‘Is there anything to drink in here?’

A quick search of the cupboards revealed only a few basic supplies and no alcohol.

‘Bloody wizards,’ Conal snorted. ‘I’ll keep watch for half the night and wake you for your turn.’

Martil felt as if he had barely closed his eyes when Conal woke him. He gave Conal a blanket, then moved a chair over to the window, where he could watch the trail. He doubted if the militia could find them. What the wizard had done would have fooled even the best tracker. Still, he had no intention of being complacent. The lanterns were out, meaning his night vision was not obscured by light in the cabin, and he let his eyes roam slowly across the clearing. He knew his peripheral vision would pick up any movement, so he let his eyes scan, while he was free to think.

Finding the wizard was a stroke of luck. He needed answers, needed them desperately. But he was afraid his old friend Borin would be proved right: no good ever came of dealing with wizards.

9

Cezar was thinking about Martil when he rode into a large patrol of cavalry and militia, led by a bloodied and bruised Lieutenant Havrick. He had been almost dozing in the saddle, lulled by the long chase and the infuriating peacefulness of the country.

‘You there! Traveller! Have you seen anyone ride past? Two men on horses, a little girl and a man on a donkey?’ Havrick bellowed.

Cezar, whose hand had gone automatically to the hilt of a throwing knife, relaxed. At least this patrol was not after him.

‘I haven’t seen anyone all day,’ he forced himself to reply as naturally as possible.

‘How is that possible? Where can they have gone?’ Havrick raged, and Cezar’s hand eased down to his saddle, where part of the design was actually a throwing dart.

‘Sir, that was Barrett the magician with them. If this man hasn’t seen them, and we haven’t caught them, it seems likely he used magic to get them away,’ one of the troopers said respectfully.

‘You mean they could be miles away, Sergeant?’ Havrick growled.

‘I mean they could be on the other side of the country. Barrett is the Queen’s Magician—he could have taken them anywhere.’

Havrick slumped in his saddle. Cezar, who seemed to have been forgotten, listened carefully.

‘I must tell the Duke. Captain Martil and Barrett the magician together—they are probably planning to rescue the Queen or something!’ Havrick exclaimed.

Cezar watched them, his heart pounding. This was what Onzalez had feared. One of the Butchers of Bellic was to become a danger to them. And he was too late to stop him.

‘Sir, we’ll need to ride to the nearest village and sequester some horses. Ours won’t last a long journey, we pushed them too hard on the way here,’ the sergeant warned.

Havrick thumped the pommel of his saddle in frustration. ‘That’s going to take too long! We need fast horses now!’ His eyes fell on the string of horses that Cezar led. Even in the moonlight, they were obviously fine beasts. ‘Here we are!’

Cezar, who had been frantically thinking how to retrieve the situation, was shocked to find Havrick right in front of him.

‘Traveller! I need your spare horses! I am an officer of the Duke and you will be recompensed for them but my need is far greater than yours!’

Cezar’s first instinct was to cut the man’s throat, take out the sergeant with a throwing knife and then gallop out of there. But while satisfying, he knew that would be a mistake.

So he forced a smile, unclenched his fist from around the small throwing knife disguised as a belt buckle and untied the reins to his three spare horses.

‘Who do I say has my horses, when I ask for payment? Each one is worth nearly three gold pieces.’

Havrick clambered off his sweating horse and had two of his men transfer his saddle onto one of Cezar’s spare horses. ‘Follow at your best speed. I’ll ride ahead to warn the Duke,’ he told them then looked up at Cezar. ‘Just tell them, Lieutenant Havrick of the Lights.’

‘I’ll be sure to remember that,’ Cezar smiled, rage bubbling inside. This arrogant fool would never know how close he had been to death at that moment. He watched Havrick gallop off, followed more slowly by his men, while the militia turned back to the village.

Cezar decided to turn around and ride back towards Wollin. He had to return to Berellia and report his failure. He knew that would mean facing Markuz and Onzalez. But he would survive. And it would not be the end of his hunt for Martil. Cezar had never failed to kill a target before and he had no intention of spoiling that record.

Perhaps predictably, Karia was the first one to wake, not long after the sun had cast its shadows over the clearing. Whoever had built this cabin had an eye for the ground, Martil decided. The winding trail was slightly raised; just enough to ensure the cabin was hidden from the main road down below. The large trees around the cabin gave privacy, but at the same time, none were so close that someone might be able to get near unseen.

As long as the wind was blowing in the right direction, to waft smoke away from the road and disperse it, there was no way they could be detected. Still, he was not willing to risk a fire, which outraged a hungry Karia.

‘But I want toast for breakfast!’ she declared.

‘There’s no fire. How about some dried fruit instead?’

‘No, I want toast!’

Martil refrained from saying he wanted a hot woman and some peace and quiet, but wasn’t going to get either of them.

‘When the wizard wakes up, I’m sure we’ll have some then,’ he compromised.

‘I’ll wake him,’ Karia offered, starting in that direction, only for Martil to catch her hand.

He felt the old, familiar surge of anger but took a deep breath instead. ‘I would like some toast as well, but we can’t have it yet. Do you understand? If we start a fire, the militia may find us.’

This was language she obviously understood. ‘All right. But we can have it when the wizard wakes up?’

‘Soon after,’ Martil promised.

So they ate some dried fruit, drank some water and played first with the top, followed by the dolls, although when Conal awoke, Martil hurriedly pretended to be looking out the window.

Conal joined them, rubbing at bleary eyes. ‘Morning,’ he yawned. ‘Don’t think we need to worry about the militia this morning. They’ll assume we escaped out of their jurisdiction, although they’ll post our descriptions in the surrounding area.’

Martil looked at him carefully. Could the old bandit be returning to what he once was—and if so, what would that mean for Martil’s use of the Dragon Sword?

Conal could not help but notice Martil’s gaze and found himself feeling strangely embarrassed. He had never told his tale to anyone before and could not help but wonder why he had told it now. He was painfully aware he had never worried about what others thought of him back in Thest. It was what had kept him alive when Danir was in one of his rages, and what had led to the derisory nickname Conal the Cowardly.

Meanwhile, Martil could see Conal’s turmoil.

‘Conal, about last night…’

‘Yes, Captain?’ Conal did not know why he used that form of address, but it had seemed natural and Martil took it as no more than his due.

‘I appreciate you telling me what happened to you. I can say that everyone deserves another chance. I am living proof of that. Whatever crimes you have committed, I have done worse. But the past is just that—behind us. All we can do is our best for that day. You don’t have to be a bandit any more. You can be the man you once were.’ Martil knew the words would help Conal—he just wished he could believe they applied to him. Instead they left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had made too many similar speeches to men before battles, telling them things they wanted to hear, rather than the things he knew were true, to take comfort from it.

Conal coughed a little, to cover his embarrassment. Time to change the mood, he thought.

‘I will, Captain. Whenever you need a spare hand, count on me.’

Karia thought that was hilarious and Martil just gave him a smile and a nod. Karia was too clever not to pick up on what they were saying if they said too much.

Conal must have had the same idea. ‘Any idea who built this place?’ he asked.

Martil took the invitation. ‘None. It must have cost a bit. And why put it out here? There’s no farming land around, and it’s too far from the village’s protection when there’s a known bandit around. And look at it. Even the fireplace is barely blackened. It hasn’t been used much.’

Conal nodded. ‘Aye, well I suppose the wizard will have answers when he wakes up. We’ll just have to wait.’

And wait they did while Barrett snored on.

Karia was quickly bored, despite Martil offering to play dice or ball with her, so Conal suggested playing dolls with her. Martil was pleased, and a little surprised to see her agree. He reflected on the irony that she had taken days to warm to him, while a smelly, one-armed, ugly ex-bandit was accepted almost immediately. There was no predicting the female taste, he told himself, although he was not as pleased to see the old bandit was remarkably good at playing dolls and making Karia laugh.

So he offered her a trip outside to feed and brush the horses. It broke the monotony but Martil was almost at his wits’ end when they walked back inside and she asked, for the umpteenth time, when she could have toast.

‘When the wizard wakes up,’ Martil said through gritted teeth, thinking this would, in years to come, become an expression to denote an enormous amount of time that needed to pass. The cabin did not even have an hourglass, to allow them to mark the passage of time.

‘When will he wake up?’

‘Now,’ Barrett said softly, and sat up.

‘Yippee! Toast!’ Karia cheered, and did a little dance.

‘We told her she had to wait for you to wake up before we started a fire. We didn’t want to give ourselves away with smoke,’ Martil explained.

Barrett nodded. ‘Quite right. But I am hungry also.’ He pointed at the fireplace, where the remains of the fire Martil had started last night still lay. Instantly they flared up, then went down to red-hot ashes, perfect for cooking but giving off almost no smoke.

The wizard looked far better than he had last night. His eyes were clear and his skin had lost some of its pallor. He swung his legs out of bed. ‘Let’s eat,’ he suggested.

As he tucked into a large bowl of sweetened oatmeal, and dried fruit, and Karia had her toast and cheese, she tried to question him through each mouthful.

‘Why do you eat so much?’ she asked.

‘Magic. It uses up my energy; energy I can only get back through eating and sleeping. Magic can never be destroyed, or disappear, so if we take it, we have to replace it. I used a great deal of magic yesterday while searching for…something, so I was drained when you met me.’

‘And how does…’

‘Perhaps we should wait before asking him these questions. After all, there are many other questions that need to be answered,’ Martil said hastily, before Karia took control.

She stared at him and crossed her arms, so he hastily shoved a piece of toast at her.

Barrett watched them in silence for a few seconds. This was an unusual trio and he was not sure how to proceed with them. His attempt to get back the Dragon Sword had not been going well. By the time he had recovered from his magical duel with Tellite, he had feared Gello’s agents would already be past him. He had spent yesterday travelling around the area, using his magic, desperately searching for signs of the Dragon Sword. It had left him exhausted and dangerously vulnerable last night. The trio had saved him. But he doubted they would be able to help any further.

‘Indeed. Perhaps we should start at the beginning. You know my name and that I am the Queen’s Magician. I know you are Martil and the girl is Karia, but who are you really?’

Martil shrugged. ‘I am better known as War Captain Martil of the Ralloran army…’

Barrett swallowed his next spoonful too fast. That name was familiar. ‘A Butcher of Bellic?’

‘Not my official title. But I was there,’ Martil admitted sourly.

‘My apologies. I have been part of the Royal Council for three years, and we receive regular reports. Please continue.’ Barrett leaned back and looked at the man with renewed interest. What was a man such as he doing up here? And why was he with a small girl? At least he appeared to be no friend of Gello’s thugs…He listened carefully as Martil explained almost all that had happened until meeting up with Barrett at Darry’s inn.

‘It was lucky for both of us,’ Barrett acknowledged. He decided he would help these people get away from Gello. It was the least he could do, although it would delay his mission somewhat. ‘Your help was given, and should be rewarded. I can get you back over the border into Tetril. You should be safer there from Gello’s thugs.’

‘Is that why you are out here?’ Martil asked.

Barrett took another mouthful of oatmeal while he pondered how much to say. Not only was there a risk to them but, after spending the past few years being unable to trust anyone else in the palace, old habits died hard. ‘No offence, but you are a Ralloran, your friend is a Tetran bandit and the girl is the daughter of a Norstaline one. I am not about to confide in you. Now, I will see you to safety and the debt between us will be paid. Although I would appreciate you answering just one question. Why was that officer so angry with you?’

‘We’d had a run-in near Wollin. He thought I had the Dragon Sword,’ Martil said dryly. He was looking forward to puncturing this pompous wizard’s arrogance when he revealed what was in his saddleroll.

‘They are searching everyone,’ Barrett agreed, ‘but why did you not just agree and then be on your way?’

‘The first time was because I don’t submit to anyone,’ Martil fired back. ‘And the second time, because I actually had it in my saddleroll.’

Barrett paused for a second, then roared with laughter. ‘Excellent jest! I can see those rumours about you Rallorans not having much of a sense of humour are wrong!’

Martil just looked at him, not saying anything, while a quick glance told Barrett that nobody else was laughing. His smile slowly died as he felt his heartbeat increase. ‘You can’t be serious?’

For an answer, Martil just went over to his saddleroll and produced the bundle, unwrapped it with a flourish and displayed the glittering scabbard.

Barrett surged to his feet. He would know that scabbard anywhere. He had feared he had failed in this mission but here it was now, being handed to him! He could see the Queen’s smile and see her gratitude—it was the familiar subject of his secret daydreams. It was almost too good to be true!

‘Aroaril’s beard! It is the Sword!’ he gasped in astonishment.

‘We were going to take it back to the Queen,’ Karia declared.

Barrett sat down, his mind racing. He had to return to the capital as fast as possible. ‘This changes everything,’ Barrett said, half to himself. ‘This could save the country.’ He looked up. ‘You must give it to me!’

Martil made no move to do so, on general principles.

But before Barrett could make a stronger demand for the Sword, Conal piped up.

‘There’s no point in him giving it to you. He’s the wielder. He drew it.’

This time Barrett’s mind went blank. Finding the Sword had been his quest for a few days; finding a wielder had been his obsession for three years. But a Ralloran warrior, especially one with a reputation like this, was one of the last people he had expected to be given such an honour. He struggled to get his mind around it.

‘You drew it? How? What did—I mean, a Ralloran! How could…’ he stuttered over himself, before he looked anew at Martil. If this was true, this man was now the most important person in the country.

‘I must ask you to prove it,’ he said politely.

Martil shrugged and drew the Dragon Sword, its bright blade catching the morning sun as it shone through the window. Barrett just stared in awe.

‘You are the wielder of the Dragon Sword. Truly, magic moves in mysterious ways. I could never have believed a man labelled the Butcher of Bellic could draw the Sword. It must have seen something amazing in you.’ Barrett looked again at the Ralloran. What would this mean for Norstalos and, more importantly, his beloved Queen?

Martil was pleased with the change in the wizard but frustrated by the way he was insistent the Sword was somehow sentient.

‘Please, sit down, we have much to discuss. You have an enormous responsibility upon you.’ Barrett tried to think where to begin. He and the Queen had spoken about this so many times, made so many plans—but those had all depended on the Queen being free, not a prisoner of Gello.

‘Can’t I just give it back to the Queen?’ Martil objected.

Barrett bit back a sharp comment. There was so much this man just did not understand! And he hated having to explain himself. It was a fault of his, he knew. The world was full of idiots and he resented having to indulge them. He had spent years developing and honing his mind, while he felt most people could have their brains swapped for a few spoonfuls of pease pudding without any discernible difference. ‘Impossible. You are the wielder of the Dragon Sword. It will allow no other until your death.’

Martil felt his heart lurch at the thought. ‘Is that really true, that this thing will kill me if I do not become the Queen’s Champion and its official wielder?’ If it were true, then Father Nott need not do any more meddling, for he was already mired in some sick destiny.

Excellent, Barrett thought. He’s finally starting to realise what being the wielder entails. Now I can take charge of him. ‘It’s true. You must become the Queen’s Champion and help her fight off Duke Gello.’

‘What if I don’t want to get involved in another war?’ Martil objected.

Barrett smiled thinly. ‘You drew the Sword. It is yours now, until death, with all the responsibilities that entails.’

Martil felt the weight of that crash on his shoulders, and could not help but slump in his chair.

‘It is not all bad. The Sword can do wondrous things for you. And the rewards of being the Queen’s Champion…I tell you, now we have the Sword, defeating Gello will be easy. And then you can relax and enjoy a rich life.’

Martil doubted it would be that simple. Things never were. But he could see where it was going. He was going to have to at least go and help the Queen. The only hope was the entire country was obsessed with the bloody thing. Perhaps Gello would just give up without a fight. Either way, it looked like he was going to have to at least try to act like a Queen’s Champion.

Barrett interrupted his thoughts at that point. ‘How did you come by the Sword?’

So Martil elaborated on his earlier tale, with help from Conal when it came to what happened to Danir’s band and how the Sword came to be there. Barrett’s anger grew as the evidence of Gello’s treachery was revealed. Could this come before the Council? Perhaps there was a chance to sway some of the other nobles back to the Queen…

‘I wonder if the bodies still have their surcoats?’

‘I doubt that. I don’t know where the ambush was, but even if we could find it, what do dead men prove? If they were alive they could admit to stealing the Sword but if we turn up with dead bodies, wouldn’t they just think we killed them?’ Conal shrugged.

‘You seem to know something about crime,’ Barrett muttered, seeing the logic but reluctant to watch some of his hope being dashed.

‘Aye, well, I’ve had a little experience of it,’ Conal agreed.

‘Why did they want to get the Sword out of the country?’ Martil asked.

Barrett had to quell his irritation again. He reminded himself he needed this man’s support. ‘It was all part of his grand plan. The people think Norstalos has been at peace because of the Sword. Without it, they are terrified Norstalos will experience a huge increase in banditry, murder, rape and the rest.

‘The Royal Council has been corrupted by Gello. It called him in to restore the order disrupted by his theft of the Dragon Sword. You have to admire a mind like that. He creates a problem to which he is seen as the only solution. But now we can stop him. With the Dragon Sword’s wielder by her side, the Queen can rally the ordinary people of Norstalos, as well as the ordinary soldiers, who know nothing about the scheming of Gello, but who just obey orders.’

‘And how do we do that?’ Martil could not help but ask.

Barrett smiled. He and the Queen had discussed this many times. ‘Simple. You and the Queen order the regiments to arrest any officer who does not pledge their loyalty, then you order a few companies to arrest Gello.’

‘And the Sword will make them obey me?’ Martil said doubtfully.

‘In the hands of a good man, other good men will follow you,’ Barrett said in exasperation. ‘It is straightforward enough.’

Martil nearly choked. There were better ways to die. This wizard had obviously been reading too many sagas and not spending enough time around real people. It was time to give him a quick lesson.

‘How many men in the army will be good?’ he asked. ‘Half? A third? Three-quarters?’

Barrett considered the question. ‘Obviously the notion of fighting and killing does attract some bad men, but this is Norstalos. I’d say at least half are good men.’

‘And you can be sure the ones we speak to will be the good half? Because if they aren’t, we’re all dead. I’ve been around a few armies, and there are plenty of men in them who aren’t good. If Gello knows his job then they’ll be fired up to invade other countries, and you’d be lucky to find a quarter of them willing to turn on their comrades in arms. And remember, it only needs a dozen of them, as well as a smart officer, and you’ve got one dead Queen and one dead Dragon Sword wielder.’ He hesitated and then decided to press on with his greatest fear. ‘And what if it doesn’t work for me properly? I did order the assault on Bellic. I have a great deal of blood on my hands. What if I’m not ready yet?’

Barrett was about to give him a withering dismissal, from force of habit, then hesitated. He could see the point of his words. But he and Queen Merren had pinned so much of their hope on the Dragon Sword working immediately for the wielder. It was all they had talked about for the past three years. The thought that they could have a Dragon Sword wielder but still be in the same situation…he did not want to give up so easily.

‘The old bandit follows you now,’ he pointed out. ‘Surely that means it is responding to you.’

‘Only because I don’t have anything better to do,’ Conal grunted. He might have confided in Martil but he was not going to say anything to this arrogant wizard.

Barrett exploded, his hopes and fears and the stress he had been under washing away any desire to placate the Dragon Sword wielder. ‘The country needs you! Duke Gello is almost completely in control and then you’ll see war as you never dreamed of! He’ll raise the biggest army this continent has seen and then crush every country! You Rallorans took decades to defeat Berellia. Do you think you could stop Gello at the head of 75,000 men?’

There were plenty of subjects that could get Martil angry, and insulting the Ralloran army was one of the big ones.

‘War isn’t just about numbers. You Norstalines might think you’re so good that you shit marble but we smashed the best Berellia and Aviland had to offer,’ he snarled. ‘Your pack of pampered lapdogs hasn’t faced real men.’

Barrett snorted in disgust. He fought for control, took a deep breath and decided to appeal to the Ralloran’s better nature. An inspiring call to arms might win him over. ‘Now is the last chance. You are the last hope of this nation, and with it, the entire continent. What do you say?’ he smiled, sure Martil would respond with some sort of oath to save the Queen and country.

Martil had heard too many of these sorts of speeches during the wars, usually right before being ordered to fight a hopeless battle. He had no intention of falling for it here. He said nothing.

Barrett’s face twisted in anger when he saw his declaration had not inspired something similar from Martil. ‘I curse the fate that saw the Sword come to such as you!’ Barrett slammed his hand down on the table and stormed to his feet.

Karia screamed, shrank back from his anger and ran around to Martil, crying. Instinctively all three men stopped and looked at her. Martil held out his arms and she dived onto his lap, burrowing into his shoulder.

‘It’s all right, we were just having a discussion,’ Martil reassured her. She sat on his lap, making sure she was facing away from Barrett. ‘She saw a lot of anger from her father and brothers. It upsets her still,’ he explained.

Barrett took a deep breath. He had little to do with children but did not want to be seen as the sort of person who frightened small girls. ‘I am sorry, Karia. Can you forgive me?’

She just burrowed her face deeper into Martil’s shoulder.

‘Perhaps later,’ Martil suggested, stroking her hair.

Barrett looked again at him. Gone was the warrior, in his place was a gentle man, calming a frightened girl. He forced himself to think again. Whatever else Martil might be, he was still the Dragon Sword wielder. ‘You may not believe it, but what you have just shown must have been what the Sword saw in you. It believes in redemption, so it no doubt felt you could be worthy of it—whatever you did, you can learn to unlock its power. Well, you have to. You will be our saviour or you will die. The Sword will only allow those choices.’

‘How can the Sword allow anything? It’s a piece of metal!’ Only the fact he had Karia on his lap stopped Martil from raging at Barrett.

The wizard sighed. ‘It is a work of the dragons. It is not alive, it will not talk to you, but it is now linked to you. A good man will be strengthened by it. One who is not good will find their life slowly being taken by the Sword, much as a wizard gives his own energy to replace the natural magic he or she uses.’

Martil stared at the Sword in revulsion.

Conal cackled. ‘If you’d left it alone, you could have given it to the wizard and we’d both be on our way with sacks full of gold. He’s obviously on a secret mission to find the Sword for the Queen.’

Barrett sighed. ‘Actually, that’s quite accurate. The Queen knew Gello was going to take control, so she sent me out of the city to find the Dragon Sword. I had to rest here and only began looking for it yesterday. No doubt Gello guessed I would follow the trail of the missing Sword, so he would have sent word to stop me if I was seen around here.’

Martil groaned inwardly. It was worse than he feared. ‘So how do we get to the Queen?’

‘Well, I thought you would just walk through the city, holding the Sword, until you had enough men to go to the palace and demand Gello release the Queen,’ Barrett admitted.

Martil looked at Conal, whose face reflected the horror he felt. Do that and Gello’s men would cut them down in an instant. ‘You’ve been listening to a few too many sagas,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll get the Queen out, then take her and the Sword somewhere out of the way, where the good men can come to us. When we’ve got enough, then we can think about marching on Gello.’

Barrett nodded reluctantly. ‘I can see the wisdom of that.’

‘How does the Sword work?’ Karia had turned around now. ‘Tell me about the dragons!’

Barrett laughed. After scaring her earlier, he thought he should do his best to be nice. ‘I was obsessed with dragons too, at your age.’

‘They call to me in my dreams and take me flying.’

Barrett’s fixed smile of sympathy became thoughtful. There was only one reason for that. ‘As they did to me,’ he muttered. ‘Interesting.’

‘What do you mean?’ Martil demanded.

Barrett waved him away. There was no need to get into magic now. They had the Dragon Sword to worry about. He had to tell this thick-headed Ralloran what even Norstaline children knew. ‘Later. First I must tell you more about the Sword.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I do not know exactly how it works, but once back in my library, I should be able to find some books to help us on the subject. What do you know of its history?’

‘The dragons gave it to your King Riel, who used it to unite the country, everyone was happy and Norstalos has been peaceful ever since, which the common people think is because of the Sword, even though that makes no sense,’ Martil recited.

Barrett paused. ‘Fairly accurate,’ he conceded. ‘The key point is, the people think the Sword makes them safe. It doesn’t. It rallies good men, makes them act when perhaps they would prefer to do nothing. The Sword itself has no power to keep the peace. It is up to the people to act. But having the Sword should encourage the people to join us—and if enough people join us, Gello cannot stop us!’

‘Look, what if he won’t go that easily? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but someone who has spent years plotting to become king isn’t going to give up just because some Ralloran turns up waving a magic sword,’ Martil said caustically. This wizard and his Queen needed a healthy dose of reality.

‘This is boring. How about the dragons?’ Karia declared.

‘Be patient,’ Martil told her, and she subsided.

Barrett looked troubled. ‘Then it will mean civil war.’

Martil did not like the sound of that—or the idea the Queen’s hopes rested on him, and his ability to master the Sword. But first they had to get to the Queen.

‘Where is she being kept?’ he asked.

‘In the palace. Perhaps we can find out her routine and the ideal spot to snatch her back,’ Barrett offered.

‘Then we should hurry,’ Martil said heavily. ‘Havrick is going to report our meeting and that he suspects I have the Dragon Sword. We need to act before then.’

‘Are you finished? Can I see some magic now?’ Karia complained.

Barrett chuckled. The Ralloran was coming around, so he could afford to be pleasant. ‘You have been patient. Here you are.’ He took a large nut from the side of his plate and tossed it lightly into the air. It flew around the room, swooping up and down before bouncing off Conal’s head and landing in Karia’s hand, where she stared at it, amazed.

‘That was fantastic! I could feel the magic then,’ she exclaimed.

‘You could feel the magic?’ Barrett asked sharply.

‘How is it one so young as you became the Queen’s Magician? I though all wizards were dried-up old sticks,’ Conal interrupted, rubbing his head.

Barrett sniffed. The Ralloran he had to be pleasant to, but this smelly old man had nothing he needed. ‘That is the traditional image of the wizard, the old man with the long beard. Many of those with little talent show that image, in order to impress the gullible. But age is no barrier. Good health is. Any age can work magic. A child can work magic, if they are taught how. In fact, the younger you are the better, for the young have greater energy. It is a paradox. At the time when you have the greatest energy, you have the least amount of knowledge. At the time you have the greatest knowledge, you have the least amount of energy to apply it. I became the Queen’s Magician because I spent my youth rigorously studying. While other novices were happy enough to get to the First or Second Circle, then relax, go drinking and enjoy themselves, I worked, both on my fitness and my skills. Now I am as strong as any warrior yet have the knowledge to use this strength to perform magic.’ He sent another nut around the room, where it bounced three times on Conal’s head before landing before Karia.

‘Why don’t you use your staff when you do magic? You hold it but your other hand is the thing that releases the magic,’ Karia asked.

Barrett had been chuckling at the expression on Conal’s face, but looked closely at her instead. ‘How do you know I don’t use my staff?’

‘I just do. Besides, I can see it is just wood.’

Barrett hesitated. There was something about this girl. Was this anything to do with the Dragon Sword and the changes to a Butcher of Bellic? ‘You’re right. The staff is a symbol, sometimes a weapon, and comes in handy when you are tired after using magic,’ he admitted.

‘This is all very well, but we need to do some serious planning. We have to get across the country and into the city unseen, then get the Queen out again, all under the noses of Gello’s guards.’ Martil decided to bring things back on track.

Barrett laughed. ‘You forget who you are with. I can get you into the city, and then get us all out again, using magic. It is the same way I travelled here. Then I shall have a brilliant plan to snatch the Queen out from under Gello’s nose, raise an army and take back the country.’

‘I bet plenty of bards performed sagas at the palace,’ Martil observed.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked a baffled Barrett.

‘No reason,’ Martil shrugged, but it merely confirmed his suspicions that Barrett thought this was some sort of saga. Things did not happen that easily in real life. If Martil had regiments of heavy cavalry and trained infantry under his command, he would be happy to take on a rabble of farmers and townsfolk. But he said nothing.

He was committed now, it seemed, locked in by magic.

‘We’d better get ready then,’ he sighed.

Father Nott was surprised to receive a summons from the Archbishop only a day after arriving back in Norstalos City. He had been barely aware of the journey from Chell to the capital. The church had provided a comfortable carriage but his mind was solely on Karia and Martil. He could not help but dwell on their conversation. Had he done enough? Had he done too much? In his heart he knew he could not have told Martil everything. Keen judge of human character that he was, he knew giving Martil too much, too quickly, would have the opposite effect. The man was just not ready to be told he was to be a saviour once more. Forcing him to take on such a burden so quickly would result in him running away. Far better for him to take on a little at a time. Nott liked to refer to it as loaf-of-bread tactics. A man would not swallow a whole loaf, but if you gave it to him one slice at a time…

He did wonder about the summons from the Archbishop but assumed it was traditional for all returned priests to meet with the head of the church. He hoped it would not result in some sort of presentation. He hated that sort of thing.

He was surprised to find it was in the Archbishop’s office, a magnificent room that—apart from the religious tone of the paintings on the walls and the fact an altar, not a throne, was the centrepoint of the room—was remarkably similar to a king’s office. He was even more surprised to see that the Archbishop himself was waiting by a pair of beautiful gilded chairs, a small table laid with refreshments between them.

‘Father Nott! Welcome! And thank you for a magnificent life of service to your people and your church! Please, sit and join me. A cup of tea?’

‘Thank you, your eminence,’ was all Nott could manage.

The Archbishop helped him sit, then poured him tea and offered it to him carefully.

Nott was at a loss for words. He had only seen the Archbishop a handful of times, and never this close. Archbishop Declan was a handsome, polished man with a fine head of silver hair. He was responsible for hundreds of priests, dozens of bishops, a huge amount of property and wealth. In terms of political power, he was able to wield as much as the strongest noble—if he chose. He was a tall, fit man, with wide shoulders and a powerful personality. Nott was somewhat overwhelmed by him.

‘This is too kind, your eminence,’ he said lamely, sipping his tea.

‘Nonsense. Do you think I give private tea parties to every returned priest? My dear fellow, I just don’t have the time!’ The Archbishop sipped his own tea and then put the cup down deliberately. ‘Tell me of Martil and Karia.’

Nott nearly spilt his tea over himself.

‘What do you want to know?’

The Archbishop sighed. ‘I know of your attachment to the girl. But I must know if the man is up to the task. Will he do what needs to be done?’

Nott looked at the Archbishop and was shocked, and frightened, to see the polished mask was gone. Instead his eyes burned into Nott’s and his face showed a man under immense strain.

‘I—I cannot say for sure, your eminence. He is a man on the edge. Tell him to do something and he is likely to go in the opposite direction. I gave him a glimpse of the path but only time can tell…’ Nott trailed off as the Archbishop’s face spasmed in a mix of anger and fear. ‘Your eminence, if you will permit me, what is it you have seen?’

The Archbishop sighed. ‘I have seen nothing of what happens to Martil and Karia. But my fear is for the church. We are approaching a pivotal point in time. The church—indeed the world—could change forever. And not for the better. Fearpriests are infesting the continent. Berellia has fallen to them. I have been contacted by one Father Saltek, who tells me he is probably the last priest of Aroaril left in the country! He has been forced into hiding as the Fearpriests hunt down all who oppose them. Meanwhile, the church of Aroaril is threatening to splinter. There are those among us, even among my bishops, who feel we should wield more secular power, that we should not restrict ourselves to the spiritual needs of the people. Did you know that once, if a priest was not able to call upon Aroaril for magic, I would replace him, bring him here until he either regained Aroaril’s favour or left our service? Well, there are so many of them now, I cannot do it. I replace them where I can but their numbers are too great…Then there are those who complain at the growing number of women being inducted into the priesthood. They want it stopped. Never mind that we have always done so; never mind that no woman has ever needed to be removed from service—and never mind that those behind that particular campaign lost Aroaril’s favour years ago. The country, the continent, even the world needs the church more than ever and I fear…I fear we are not equal to the challenge. The Dark God is among us once more and we will not be the ones to stop him. In fact, some of our number will help him. It will fall to Martil and Karia, and others, to save us all. I just want to know if this man is able to do that.’

Nott, who had listened to the Archbishop’s words with mounting horror, just stared at him in silence when he finished. Finally, he cleared his throat.

‘Your eminence, I know what you want to hear but—but I do not know if he can…’

Conal and Martil went through the cabin’s cupboards and took what was left—dried oats, smoked meat, salt and honey—to replenish their supplies. There was little left but plenty had obviously been eaten recently, judging by the amount of empty packages.

‘What is this place?’ Conal asked. ‘Who lives here?’

‘This is a royal magician’s cabin. We sometimes need to move around the country quickly, and when we arrive, need somewhere quiet to rest and relax, to recover our strength. Magic wards protect them, while a local family ensures they are kept clean and stocked with both food and firewood, in exchange for a yearly stipend. I know the location of them all, dotted across the country, and they are a useful place to hide. Now, if we are finished with the stupid questions, we should go.’

Conal went out to load up the horses, Karia helping him carry some of the things as his left arm could not hold as much without a hand. Barrett waited until she was out the door, then stopped Martil from following them.

‘I think she may be able to do magic,’ he said softly. ‘She’s been dreaming of dragons, and they’ve been calling to her. That’s a classic sign. Then she picked the staff was not a magical conduit—few people realise that. Did you know her parents?’

So Martil was forced to quickly tell the story, and Barrett looked thoughtful.

‘Interesting. The intervention of Aroaril, the old priest recognising strange signs. It fits. I’d still have to test her, but I think she should be trained.’

‘But she’s just a little girl!’

‘Makes no difference. You’d be surprised how many women can do magic. Of course, society sometimes frowns on that, and many are prevented from achieving their full potential. But we have a Queen now, so perhaps that stigma will be gone. Or at least reduced. At the moment, sadly, many of my older colleagues still believe you need to have a staff to be a wizard, not the other way around.’

Martil acknowledged the little joke but his mind was more on what Karia could become. Would he be magically enslaved to be her servant, forced to keep providing her with food and amusement? If so, things would not change much, he admitted to himself.

‘We should get moving. The test for Karia can wait; besides, I need all my strength for the trip.’

Martil was intrigued by how they would travel—by dragon?—but decided not to provoke another lecture from the wizard. They loaded up the animals and Barrett led them further up the trail, away from the road.

‘You don’t have to come along, you know,’ Martil told Conal, whose donkey puffed after them. ‘You could slip away.’

The old bandit shrugged. ‘I told you I’d like to give you a hand. Besides, if we can get the Queen out and win back the country, I want a royal pardon and a sackful of gold.’

Barrett guided them for perhaps a hundred paces, then stopped in front of a massive oak tree, whose roots formed a natural step in the path.

‘We shall use this to get to Norstalos City,’ he announced.

‘How? Do we chop it down and fly it?’ Conal grinned.

Barrett slapped the massive bole of the trunk. ‘Watch, fool, and see how I can harness nature’s power to create magic. Now you should do something useful and blindfold the horses, as well as that creature you are riding. They rarely enjoy this type of journey.’

Once he saw Conal was using old tunics to cover the animals’ eyes, Barrett closed his own eyes, then reached out to touch the tree’s trunk with one hand, the other hand using his staff to prop himself up.

He grunted with effort and Karia gave a squeal of excitement. ‘Look! I can see what he’s doing! We’re going to the city!’

Martil looked at Conal but the old bandit seemed equally baffled. They turned to Barrett, to see the wizard’s face tight with concentration. ‘It is done. We must hurry,’ he croaked.

‘What’s done?’ Martil could not see any change within the tree, and had no idea how a tree could get them across the country anyway.

‘Look! It’s beautiful! There’s grass there!’ Karia laughed, grabbed Martil’s hand and dragged him towards the tree.

‘Bring my horse with you, and hurry!’ Barrett snapped at Conal, who made no move to obey, but just stood there foolishly. ‘Move, man!’ Barrett’s voice still had enough authority in it to make Conal jump to obey.

Martil tried to hold Karia back, afraid she would hurt herself on the tree. But then Barrett lifted his staff and thrust it into the tree trunk. Martil nearly cried out in shock when the staff, instead of thudding into solid wood, seemed to disappear into the trunk.

‘Hold the staff as you go through. It will guide you. Make sure you do not break contact with it or you will become lost,’ Barrett grunted.

Martil still hung back but Karia had no such fears. She pressed her hand against Barrett’s staff and simply walked into the tree. Instead of smashing into it and falling to the ground, as Martil’s eyes and brain insisted must happen, she vanished.

‘Karia!’ Martil’s heart lurched and he rushed after her, dragging the blindfolded Tomon along with one hand, as he reached for the staff with the other. Instinctively he closed his eyes. But instead of crashing into the tree, he stepped into open space. He opened them to see he was standing on grass, with the sun on his face, in front of a large oak tree only this one was not beside a trail in the forest.

‘What?’ He stared around for a second before remembering. ‘Karia! Where are you?’

‘That was fun,’ she laughed, skipping out from behind the tree. ‘But don’t you think you’d better get Tomon through?’

Martil, about to admonish her for going through without him, turned to see he was still holding Tomon’s reins, although only the horse’s head was protruding out of the oak tree. Fortunately, he had kept hold of the staff and guided the horse out.

‘You should never go first. You should always wait for me. How did you know what was on the other side?’ he demanded.

‘I could see it was safe,’ she protested. He was just being silly. Anyone could see what that wizard had been doing!

‘I couldn’t! I was worried about you.’

Before she had time to answer, Conal walked through, leading Barrett’s horse and his donkey. Lastly Barrett staggered through, hauling himself along his staff as if it were some sort of handrail. He pulled his staff through afterwards then slumped to the ground.

‘Get me something to drink,’ he gasped.

Taking a waterskin from Conal, he drank greedily, water splashing down the front of his tunic.

‘Where are we?’ Martil wanted to know.

Looking around, he could see the oak tree stood by itself, surrounded by grass, but beyond the grass clearing, on all sides was seemingly solid trees.

‘We’re at the back of my garden in Norstalos City,’ Barrett wheezed. He had opened a pouch and was cramming what looked like honey sweetmeats into his mouth.

‘So where’s the house?’

‘Through there,’ Barrett said thickly. ‘I don’t like people knowing I have this tree. There are those who would realise its purpose and perhaps lie in wait for me when I return. And, as you can see, when you travel a long distance by this method, you finish it exhausted.’

‘Why oak trees? How does that work?’ Martil pressed his hands up against the tree, finding nothing more unusual than a few ants crawling up the surface.

‘I’ll explain another time. Accept that opening these gateways is an area I have studied carefully. I believe there are few who can match my skill at it,’ Barrett said, leaning against the tree, drinking from the waterskin.

‘So all the magic you do is found in nature,’ Karia said slowly.

‘That’s right. New magic is being learned all the time. If a plant, a fish, a bird or an animal can do something, we can take that ability and use it. Likewise the natural weather patterns can be altered, to bring in wind, rain, lightning, even fire.’ He licked the last of the honey off his thumb. ‘Now, enough questions. We must get to the house.’

10

Barrett pushed himself to his feet and then gestured at the thick trees in front of him. They instantly shrank into tiny seedlings, revealing a large stone house.

‘What if your house is being watched?’ Martil said suddenly.

Barrett shook his head. ‘I’d have felt it. I have protective wards around here. Help me.’

Leaning on his horse, Barrett led the way down the path to a more formal garden, with wide herb beds filled with flourishing plants, and beautiful flowers. Pressed gravel paths led through the raised beds, and he made his way through them to a large paved area at the back of the house, which was littered with long sticks.

‘I think you need to get some new servants. This place needs tidying up, wizard,’ Conal chuckled.

Barrett gave him a withering glance, then let the trees spring up again with a gesture. He pointed to the paved area and the sticks flew up, collecting themselves into a neat pile by a wall.

‘You didn’t need to do that on my behalf, wizard. I’m happy to live in a pigsty,’ Conal grinned.

‘Do you have a brain? Those were my wards,’ Barrett said caustically.

‘What, you’d hear if people trod on them?’

Barrett sighed. ‘I do not have the energy to waste on you. If you had tried to cross them, they would have entangled you. Now come on.’

Martil ignored the byplay, instead concentrating on the house. It was obviously for a high-ranking official; the beautiful stone walls and fine glass windows spoke of that. Two storeys tall, it seemed big enough to house a score of people, let alone one wizard.

There were several doors, none of which appeared to have visible locks or keyholes, but one opened as soon as Barrett placed his hand on it.

‘What about the horses?’ Conal asked.

‘The stables are out the front, but it is perhaps best not to make our presence too obvious. Hobble them and leave them here. You can bring out corn for them to eat later.’

Barrett, still leaning heavily on his staff, took them through a long hall, where their footsteps echoed on the marble floor, and they were stared at by beautiful portraits on the lime-washed walls. Rooms opened up to either side: a huge library, an even bigger dining room and several reception rooms, all of them lavishly furnished. Karia wandered around, her mouth open. She had thought the Crown and Sparrow inn was impressive but this was just amazing! Even Edil had not been able to think up a palace this magnificent for them to dream about.

‘I inherited the furnishings along with the house, when I took the position. It is not to my taste but, sadly, redecorating has been far down my list of priorities,’ Barrett shrugged. ‘I have servants usually, but I sent them away for a few days before I left. First I must check my house has not been disturbed. I was confronted here by three of Gello’s tame wizards. I defeated them and the two that were left alive are unlikely to have tried to trespass here. Still, I need to be sure.’

So they waited while Barrett crept up to the front door, and peered out. The evidence of his battle with Tellite was gone, and there was no sign of the body, the other two wizards or more mundane guards. Even better, the magical lock he had placed on the door had not been touched. He breathed a sigh of relief. Probably Elong and Ackwal had told Gello that they had driven Barrett away, losing Tellite in the process. The Duke was notoriously vengeful to those who failed him, so they would have had to put the best possible face on things. As long as he was careful, he should be able to use the house as a base.

‘We’re all clear. Come on, let’s see what food is left in the kitchen,’ he invited.

It was a little messy, with the remains of his last, hurried, meal still on a table, but the massive kitchen, with huge fireplaces and an enormous pantry, had plenty to offer.

‘This place is more like an inn’s kitchen. How much do you eat, wizard?’ Conal gasped.

‘In times past, the Royal Magician entertained the royal court. But I would sooner swallow a dragon than have the likes of Gello in here,’ Barrett grunted. He aimed for a chair and only just made it. ‘Please, get me something to eat.’

The pantry yielded a fine ham, plenty of cheese and even some over-ripe fruit; predictably Karia was hungry, while Barrett gorged himself.

‘That must put a huge strain on you,’ Martil observed.

‘Well, I do not perform that sort of magic every day. Thankfully. It is one of the hardest things to master. And I was still a little drained by my efforts yesterday. I travelled all around the border country, looking for evidence of the Sword—only to have it disturb me over dinner!’

Conal carved a slice of ham and stuffed it into his mouth. ‘I love to hear you talk, wizard, but I have no idea what you are saying sometimes,’ he said around the mouthful of meat.

‘I’m not speaking for your benefit, but for the girl’s. She might have to try that some day. You, on the other hand, have about as much chance of doing something magical as that ham does of raising a family of piglets.’

Conal stared at him for a second, before laughing and cutting another slice. ‘I like you, wizard,’ he announced.

‘Perhaps we should go looking for the Queen,’ Martil suggested hastily, seeing the dark look on Barrett’s face.

The wizard could feel his body recovering but it was still an effort to think. ‘Yes. But you should be careful. And you should also carry the Dragon Sword at all times.’

Martil held up the beautiful Sword. ‘How can I do that? It’ll be seen immediately. Not only is it more decorated than a palace flunky’s tunic, but you tell me every child knows what it looks like.’

Barrett sighed. He did not have the energy to be patient. ‘It’s also magical, and can be disguised. Take off one of your swords.’

Martil untied his sword belt and carefully took one scabbard off, replacing it with the Dragon Sword. ‘Now what?’ he asked.

‘Concentrate, and imagine it looks like your old sword.’

Martil did so, then opened his eyes to see it had not changed in the slightest.

‘That’s odd. Perhaps you need to hold the Sword.’ Barrett rubbed his head as he tried to remember all he knew about the Sword.

This time Martil clasped the hilt while he imagined it looking like his old sword. Again, nothing happened. Barrett stood and began to pace, even as he chewed on a chunk of cheese.

‘That doesn’t make sense. The Sword certainly has the power to change its appearance. And it is magical enough for even the most unmagical wielder to use it. I need to look in my library.’

This only reinforced Martil’s desire not to go marching out in the open, trying to rally men to the Sword.

They followed Barrett out of the kitchen and into a huge room lined with shelves. Books and scrolls filled the shelves, cascading over tables and chairs set all around.

‘Wow! Do you have lots of good stories for me to read?’ Karia breathed.

‘I’m not sure about that. But we do have a very fine collection of sagas, both in poetry and in prose.’ Barrett smiled at her.

‘I might have guessed,’ Martil muttered.

Barrett used a short ladder to reach up and pull down a book. He flicked through it, then dropped it onto the floor before selecting another. This one seemed to have something he wanted, because he gave a grunt of satisfaction as he read swiftly, turning pages rapidly.

‘It says here that the Sword’s powers are latent—that they will begin to act as soon as it is drawn from the scabbard. Whoever is allowed to use it will find it makes him invincible in battle. But its more subtle power, the power to inspire other men, will not be so obvious.’

‘How do you tell if it’s working or not?’ Martil demanded.

‘I’m looking, I’m looking,’ Barrett snapped, flicking through pages, then he jabbed a finger down triumphantly. ‘It says here that the Sword will provide its own proof, a warning if you like, to the wielder, so he knows if he is living up to the Sword’s expectations. To know if its hidden magical powers are being invoked, you just need to look at the dragon on the hilt. Its eyes should sparkle with life and the body grow warm, almost as if it is alive.’

‘How is that possible? It’s a metal carving, with jewels stuck in where the eyes should go,’ Martil protested.

‘Just have a look,’ Barrett urged, clambering down from the ladder.

Martil held up the hilt but could see nothing. ‘I can’t tell,’ he admitted.

Barrett chewed his lip. ‘That can’t be right. If you’re not sure, then it mustn’t be working for you.’

Martil tried not to think about what that would mean. It made him feel sick. He sheathed the Sword, wishing he had never found it. ‘Well, I’ll leave it here. I need to go out and look around.’

‘If you’re going out, can I come too?’ Karia asked. ‘I like being with you.’

Martil could not help but smile. ‘I like having you around,’ he admitted. ‘You can come along. We’ll just be looking around, not doing anything dangerous.’

‘That’s all very well, but what about the Sword?’ Barrett grumbled. ‘I don’t like that it is not obeying you. Give it one more try.’

Martil concentrated once more, and opened his eyes when he heard Karia gasp in surprise.

‘I saw its eyes! They sparkled! As if it was looking at me!’ she screeched excitedly.

Martil glanced down, hoping to see it for himself but the Dragon Sword just looked exactly like one of his old swords now, although the hilt still felt like the finely-worked dragon, rather than the familiar old wood and leather it appeared to be.

‘Excellent! Perhaps you weren’t concentrating enough, the first times. It does help if you practise,’ Barrett said wisely. He knew that if he acted as though this was all a lesson, they would believe him. It was one of the first things he had been taught as a novice.

‘Hey, does it do any more tricks?’ Conal asked.

‘It is the Dragon Sword. It does amazing things. Now, I suggest you stand guard quietly, while I rest. I may be tired, but I have just enough energy to give you an unpleasant skin condition, should you disturb me further.’

Conal laughed. ‘I’ve already had most of them.’

Duke Gello bit back an angry comment as Count Cessor droned on about his plans for adding to his ancestral lands. He had been forced to listen to something similar from Earl Worick and he had had enough. He knew these same men had laughed at him, years ago, watched him run out of the throne room after being refused by the Dragon Sword. If he had his way, they would all be dead now. But his mother had been right—they had proved useful over the past few years. And luckily for them the country was barely in his grip and he still needed them. But as soon as the country was his, these men would have outlived their usefulness. He would wipe out the shame of that day, wipe it out absolutely—and avenge himself on everyone who was there. He let that thought warm him as he let Cessor drone on. Not much longer, he told himself.

It was almost relaxing to wander the streets of the capital. And it was remarkably easy. Barrett’s directions had been simple enough—turn left and then just keep riding until you reach the palace. What surprised Martil was the lack of guards. After all, this was supposed to be a city under martial law. First it had concerned him, then he remembered where he was, riding through the streets of the upper classes. The patrols and the militia would ignore these streets, safe in the knowledge the rich would not cause trouble. Instead they would be thickly clustered around the Poor Quarter, heavy on the gates and keeping a close eye on the markets and other areas where the public would gather. Here the road was wide and well paved, the houses large and set back from the road in big gardens, protected by high fences and tall gates. These were the homes of the rich merchants, as well as the city houses of the nobility. Most of these, either at Duke Gello’s advice or by their own sense of self-preservation, were at their country estates, so all he and Karia saw was the odd carriage rattling past, and the occasional wagon, going to make some sort of delivery.

‘What are we doing?’ Karia asked, as they waved to one of the few people they saw.

‘Trying to blend in. We’re just out for an afternoon ride. But what we really want to do is find the Queen, so we can work out how to rescue her.’

‘How?’

‘I have no idea. I’m hoping the wizard can come up with something amazing,’ Martil shrugged.

He was expecting to see the palace soon—and thinking the first sign of it would probably be some guards—when they rode around a corner and found themselves in a huge open square, at the centre of which was the palace. In better times it was a meeting place, probably a market, Martil guessed, but now there were only a handful of people enjoying its flowerbeds, its seats and its beautiful paving. Perhaps because the day was overcast but more likely, Martil felt, because there were at least fifty guards patrolling in small groups, while another score or so were drawn up in a tight block at the palace gates.

He urged Tomon forward. Standing still would invite attention; they had to move slowly and cautiously. The guards were there to encourage people not to linger. And any who were not made uncomfortable by seeing soldiers march past all the time would no doubt receive closer inspection. Martil saw with relief that the nearest guards had decided they were just a father and daughter out for a nice ride in the afternoon and walked past without stopping them.

‘One day we’ll live in a palace like that,’ Karia declared, looking at the magnificent, marble-clad structure.

‘I couldn’t afford it. You’ll have to marry a nobleman,’ he joked.

‘No, you’ll have to marry the Queen,’ she told him.

Martil could not help but laugh, and their laughter got them past another patrol. The soldiers gave them a good look but, reassured by the banter, let them ride on. Bringing Karia had been a stroke of genius, Martil congratulated himself. There was no way an armed man on a horse would have been allowed to get this close to the palace otherwise. He rode slowly around the square, trying to keep one eye on the palace and the other on the various guard patrols. He saw nothing but problems. There was only one gate to the palace and it was very well guarded. As for the walls, they were high, too high to even think about scaling—and they were also well watched. Everywhere he looked, there were guards staring down. Getting the Queen out of there would be near impossible. He completed his circuit of the square then steered Tomon over towards a patch of garden, which consisted of a small piece of lawn, several benches and some flowerbeds in full bloom. He had no idea what they would do if they saw the Queen; the guards were just too watchful. He guessed it would be even worse at night.

‘Does the Queen come out often?’ Karia asked.

‘Not any more,’ Martil predicted. ‘Do you want to pick her some flowers, in case she does come out?’ He doubted they would see anything useful here but it was always best to be prepared—and a bunch of flowers would add to their disguise.

They stopped, and while Tomon gave the lawn a thoughtful munch, Martil helped Karia to pick a large handful of fragrant blooms. Almost before Karia had a chance to say she was hungry, Martil dug out some dried fruit in honey. He could not help but reflect on how he seemed to have fallen into a pattern now. He was finding it hard to remember how life had been before he had Karia. It seemed strange to think his biggest concerns during the day had been finding enough wine and recalling the words to a silly song.

‘I’m bored. Can we go now?’ Karia asked.

‘Soon,’ Martil said distractedly. He looked again at the walls. Unless the wizard could fly them in, or knew of a secret passage, there was no rescue possible from the palace. He was about to lift Karia up onto Tomon when a series of trumpets sounded from inside the palace.

‘What’s happening?’ Karia demanded, twisting around in his arms.

‘Perhaps we might get to see the Queen after all,’ Martil suggested hopefully.

Sure enough, the two squads of guards by the gates smoothly wheeled apart, forming up in twin columns to either side. The gates opened inwards, allowing a dozen cavalry to ride out. Heavy cavalry, Martil noticed. They wore shiny breastplates over their mail, tall red plumes on their steel helmets and each carried a long lance with the same red pennant hanging from the tip. They would be a formidable force, Martil judged.

These were followed by a beautiful carriage, its fine woodwork etched in gold, the royal arms of Norstalos—a dragon holding a sword—engraved on its door. Eight perfectly matched white horses drew the carriage, which was followed by another dozen heavy cavalry.

‘If we get the chance, give the flowers to the Queen and tell her we’re with Barrett. Ask her where she will be tomorrow, so we can rescue her. But don’t say anything if any of the soldiers are near,’ Martil said urgently.

Karia nodded nervously. ‘But I get shy sometimes. What if I’m too scared to say something?’

Martil reflected that would truly be ironic. He also kicked himself mentally for not writing something down, which could have been passed over. ‘Just try. If you can’t, it doesn’t matter,’ he said, hoping that would prove to be true.

Carefully, not riding at the slow-moving procession, they took up position close to where the carriage would pass, although he noted few of the other townsfolk in the square were doing so.

‘Your majesty!’ Martil shouted, lifting Karia up onto his shoulders. ‘Hold up the flowers,’ he hissed.

Karia waved the somewhat bedraggled blooms, which included what Martil suspected were a few weeds as well.

The escort rode past, staring disdainfully at him. Now the carriage was about to pass, and with it perhaps their best opportunity.

‘Your majesty!’ he roared.

‘Stop the carriage!’ someone ordered and, almost reluctantly, the procession came to a halt, the carriage door almost right in front of Martil and Karia. He lifted her down from his shoulders.

‘Go on,’ he urged, but she hesitated, plainly unnerved by the big horses and the large carriage.

Then the Queen opened the carriage door and looked out. Martil found he could not take his eyes off her. It was not that she was the most beautiful woman he had seen. Her nose was a shade too long, her brows a touch too thick, her chin a fraction too square. But her eyes were a hypnotic green and there was just something about her that called to him. He could not pinpoint why, but looking at her made him feel as though he had taken a blow to the stomach.

‘The Queen will allow your daughter to present her bouquet,’ one of the ladies-in-waiting called out. ‘Swiftly now!’

Karia wanted nothing more than to hide behind Martil’s leg. But he had said it was important to get a message to this woman. She looked strange—her dress was much too shiny and she seemed to be wearing far too many jewels. Karia could not help but see some hanging from the woman’s ears. Surely they would hurt! She concentrated on them, took a deep breath and walked towards the carriage. I can just hand up the flowers and run away, she thought.

A footman jumped down from behind the carriage and raced up to release a set of steps from under the carriage. Karia shrank away from him, because he was a strangely-dressed man, wearing the same colours as the coach, but he just bowed low and backed off. The Queen held out her hand and before she knew what she was doing, Karia climbed the steps, with a little difficulty, then held out the assorted petals and weeds that made her bouquet.

‘They are…unusual, my dear,’ the lady next to the Queen said as she held out a hand for the flowers. But Karia held onto them.

The Queen gave her an uncertain smile and spoke for the first time. ‘What is your name?’

For a second she wanted to run, but Martil had said this was important. And she should help him. After all, he was getting better at stories and always seemed to have time to play catch.

‘I’m Karia,’ she said softly.

‘And is that your father?’

Karia was about to tell the story, then remembered how people seemed to get angry when she said it all. Besides, it might take too long to explain everything, so she decided to say what she needed in a rush. ‘He’s the greatest warrior in the world. He’s here with the Dragon Sword and your wizard Barrett to rescue you but he doesn’t think he can get you out of the palace.’

The Queen’s eyes widened dramatically and the ladies with her gasped. The Queen smiled again, and this time it was much warmer.

‘You are a very brave girl, Karia. Let him know that I shall announce where I am going to be tomorrow. Tell them to come and get me tomorrow, understand?’ She said it urgently. ‘Can you remember that?’

Karia smiled. She could remember everything. ‘Of course I can!’ she said, almost scornfully.

The Queen’s smile broadened, became beautiful. ‘Good girl. And now I should take your flowers.’

Karia handed them over, and the Queen immediately and carefully gave them to one of the ladies with her.

‘We shall see you tomorrow, Karia,’ the Queen nodded.

Karia clambered back down the stairs and raced over to Martil.

He picked her up but dared not ask her what she had said to the Queen. Not with more than twenty troopers within hearing.

‘Drive on!’ the Queen commanded loudly, as the footman packed away the steps. ‘But I have changed my mind. We shall visit the tomb of my father today. I shall go to church tomorrow, instead.’

With that the carriage door was shut and the procession rumbled into movement again. Martil could see the Queen watching him closely as they clattered past. He waved, as did Karia, until the carriage was gone, then he lifted her back onto Tomon. Across the square, people were drifting away, and those that were staying were getting renewed attention from the guards. It was time to go, he saw.

‘What did you say to her?’ Martil asked as he rode Tomon back the way they had come, trying to go as fast as he could without looking as if he was going fast at all.

‘I told her what you said, how Barrett had sent us and I also said how you were the greatest warrior in the world, so you would rescue her. She said she would give us a message and to come and get her tomorrow.’

‘You did?’ Martil asked, feeling absurdly pleased at being described that way. ‘You did really well. I’m so proud of you,’ he told her.

‘Did you hear the message she gave? Did you understand it?’

Martil hesitated. ‘I heard it. I just hope that Barrett knows what the Queen’s words mean.’

He did. As soon as Martil was finished recounting the story, Barrett laughed.

‘She’s a clever one, Queen Merren. As soon as you said you were with me, she must have thought up a way for me to know her location tomorrow. All in a few heartbeats! There’s no doubt she’ll be a great ruler of this country, if we can only get rid of Gello and his pack of dogs. Tell me, how did she look?’

‘Where’s the church?’ Martil asked a little testily. The tone of Barrett’s voice when talking about the Queen annoyed him, especially his last question. It was as if the relationship between them was more than just ruler and adviser.

Barrett shrugged. ‘It’s the Church of the Sun. It’s just in the next street. It’s the closest one to the palace and the one the royal family has always used.’

‘Well, we need to get there this afternoon and look around,’ Martil said.

‘Hold your horses!’ Conal had been silent through the tale but his voice boomed out now. ‘You said she’s being escorted by a squadron of heavy cavalry, right? Am I the only one that thinks trying to get her out of the hands of a squadron of Gello’s picked troops is crazy?’

‘Why is it crazy?’ Karia asked curiously.

Conal shrugged. ‘Fair enough. It must be just me.’

‘Not as crazy as trying to get her out of the palace from in front of hundreds of troops,’ Martil pointed out. ‘But we need to plan this.’

‘It has to be,’ Barrett insisted. ‘We must rescue the Queen! The fate of the country rests upon us.’

Martil refused to answer this; portentous statements always set his teeth on edge.

Barrett, meanwhile, was infuriated by what he saw as Martil’s lack of respect for what they were doing. Did he not understand how important this was?

‘Perhaps we should get going,’ Conal said to fill in the silence.

The Church of the Sun was an ancient building, its old stones weathered by time. It had been one of the city’s first stone buildings. Obviously there had been a need for more room as time went on, and extensions had been added onto the sides, their newer stone a glaring contrast with the old, original work. But Martil was more interested in the fact there were no guards.

‘Why aren’t there any guards around?’ Conal asked nervously, echoing Martil’s thoughts.

‘Don’t you know anything?’ Karia said disdainfully. ‘Churches are always open, and always protected by Aroaril. Thieves get left out for the militia to collect, frozen to the spot, if a priest catches them.’

‘Well, that’s me told,’ Conal grinned.

Late in the afternoon, on a weekday, there were few people inside. Like most churches, it had the familiar smell of dust and wood polish, its long wooden pews smoothed to a shine by the hands and backsides of generations of worshippers. Being an old church, it had the traditional layout, with the altar up front and small rooms off to the side, where the priest could meet privately with people who had problems. Martil felt the familiar guilty surge when he walked into a church, then forced his mind back to the problem at hand.

‘Where will the Queen go?’

‘She’ll come in, accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting. The guards will surround the church but are unlikely to come inside. Armed troops are forbidden within the church by tradition,’ Barrett said thoughtfully. ‘But they will watch both exits. How can a rescue be effected then?’

Martil looked around. How to get someone out unseen? It was impossible. The guards would not leave unless the Queen walked out of the church…therefore the only way to get them to leave was to make them think the Queen had walked out of the church. It reminded him of a trick he and Borin had tried, many years ago.

‘We’ll find a prosti—I mean, a woman of the night, and bring her in here early in the morning. Then we wait in one of the rooms until the Queen arrives. They change outfits and the escort rides back to the castle, where the pretend Queen takes to her bed. She takes off the Queen’s robes, dresses as a servant and escapes. They’ll think the Queen somehow got out of the palace, so they’ll be looking in the wrong place. By the time they discover the Queen is gone, we’ll already have left through your oak tree.’

Barrett tested the plan for flaws. It had the virtue of simplicity. Also, he did not have anything better. ‘How did you come up with that idea?’ he asked, to give himself time to think some more.

Martil laughed. ‘It was actually my mate Borin’s plan, years ago. We smuggled some—women of the night—into barracks disguised as soldiers. The officers never guessed a thing!’

Conal roared with laughter, but Karia looked as if she was going to start asking questions, so Martil moved swiftly on.

‘We need to find a woman who can be hired for money who looks a bit like the Queen. Do you have any ideas?’ he asked Barrett, who was still trying to think of a better plan to rescue the Queen, one that involved himself doing something impressive.

Barrett flushed as he understood Martil’s question, then realised what that might look like. He took a moment to compose himself. This had been occupying his thoughts ever since Martil had mentioned exchanging the Queen for a prostitute. ‘I do know one who looks like the Queen,’ he admitted.

There was a short pause. ‘I thought wizards were banned from that sort of thing,’ Conal said eventually.

Barrett coughed a little. ‘Only because it can sap the energy before magic use. But I don’t always cast mighty magics.’

‘And how did you find one that looked like the Queen?’ Martil said suspiciously.

Barrett coughed some more. ‘It just happened,’ he said defensively. ‘But I can go and get her tonight.’

Martil stared at the wizard carefully. ‘Don’t you think you need to get your rest, if you’re going to be of use tomorrow? Besides, you might be recognised. I’d be far better off going.’

‘Going where?’ Karia piped up.

Barrett and Martil locked stares for a long moment, then the wizard’s jaw tightened. ‘Fine. I’ll give you directions,’ he snapped.

‘To what? What are you talking about?’ Karia demanded.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ Martil said absently. ‘We’d better leave before the priest gets suspicious. We don’t want him to remember us when we arrive early tomorrow and give him a large sum of money to use a room.’

‘But what about the ladies-in-waiting? And the Queen? Will they go along with this plan?’ Conal wanted to know.

‘You need have no fear about that. She is a brave, intelligent woman, ready to do anything for her country,’ Barrett said fervently.

Queen Merren looked out of her window and watched Gello’s thugs chase away people from the square. Just over a week ago, there would have been stalls selling hot food, artefacts from several countries and cold drinks. Hundreds of people would have been wandering around, enjoying the fresh air, the flowers and the market. Only a few defiant, or perhaps bewildered, souls turned up regularly now. That the men who had done this were wearing Norstalos’s uniform was a source of constant anger to her.

She sighed. Even now she could barely believe it had come to this. Ever since that fateful moment, when Gello had been unable to draw the Dragon Sword, they had been competing for the crown. But she never thought she might actually lose.

At least her Aunt Ivene was not here to gloat about Gello’s triumph.

She had been the one to start it all. From the moment he was born, Ivene had filled Gello’s head with ambition, telling him it was his destiny to take the crown and nothing else would suffice; that he would be the greatest ruler Norstalos had ever seen. Her every waking moment had been devoted to it. Gello’s father, Earl Hugh, had nothing to do with the boy’s upbringing. An elderly second cousin, he had been used to ensure the young Gello’s bloodline was impeccably Norstaline, then had died soon afterwards. Merren would not have put it past Ivene to have helped finish him off.

Merren smiled bitterly as she remembered their childhood. Gello was ten years older, and they had never really been friends. He had been too boastful for her liking, too full of his mother’s opinions—and too full of himself. And yet, he had possessed charm, when he wanted to use it, and he could be funny. He had even been kind to the young Merren, being raised for a life of public duty, and sick of being told she had to marry well and have as many sons as possible. Gello had assured her that, once he was King, she could marry for love, not political gain. But after the Dragon Sword refused him, all that had changed.

He was no longer the chosen one, the King-in-Waiting. Where once he had been the centre of court, the one everyone wanted to speak to, the one everyone wanted to be with—now all that attention was hers.

Gello, who had become viciously bitter, quick to anger and easy to offend, sulked in the shadows, attracting the outcasts of court, those who had fallen out of favour with King Croft.

Merren, on the other hand, was now the future Queen. While she frantically tried to learn all the duties of an heir, she found herself hugely popular at court. After all, for every unmarried male noble, she was the road to the crown. The Duchess Ivene even suggested she marry Gello, to unite the bloodline.

Thankfully her father refused—but the pair of them came up with that compromise deal. Gello would have the army and be the strong right arm of the crown. There was some justification. At that time, the Berellians looked likely to win the Ralloran Wars and it had been whispered around court—most likely at the behest of Ivene—the Berellians might invade Norstalos if there was only a Queen on the throne. Merren would take the crown but look for a Champion and wait until her son, or Gello’s son, could take up the Sword.

Merren had not liked the sound of the deal—even then, she knew that Gello would not settle for being second. But at least his ambition, temporarily thwarted by the Dragon Sword, had a new outlet. Blood and conquest. He had spent days with a giant map of the continent and model armies, planning how to smash every other country into bloody defeat. The first and only time she had tried to tell him that she would never give the order to invade another country, and that he would have to obey her, had ended with Gello trying to attack her, and being restrained by his bodyguard.

Their race had begun.

She had the early advantage—she had been named as heir, and he was in disgrace, judged unworthy by the Dragon Sword.

But while Merren had to play by the rules, Ivene and Gello were prepared to try anything to obtain the power they saw as rightfully theirs. An often sick King Croft seemed to completely miss what Gello and Ivene were doing. The young Duke was vigorously remaking the army, replacing older officers with ones loyal only to him. Meanwhile the old Duchess was undermining the Royal Council, splitting the nobles and making as many as possible loyal to her and her son. King Croft ignored Merren’s warnings and concerns. So, when her father died—and Merren could not help but wonder if Duchess Ivene’s hand had been in that also, as he had been comparatively young—she could not replace Gello. And the situation just grew steadily worse for her, until it had reached this point, when enough nobles had been subverted that they could call for Gello to take over, and enough of the army had been corrupted, so it would follow those orders.

She had had plenty of time to think over the past three years, and to imagine what she might have done differently.

She could see he had outwitted her in the Royal Council. Or rather, her aunt had outwitted her. Ivene knew all the nobles well—knew their deepest desires and darkest secrets. She also knew how to play them off against each other. Gello would have one of his cronies bring up a ridiculous proposal that would benefit one noble’s land at the expense of another. Merren would have no choice but to block it, and thus upset the noble whose lands were to receive the benefit. Any new laws she tried to bring in were so saddled with amendments and codicils that they either failed to achieve their intended desire, or managed to make things worse. In this way, he had slowly split up the nobles who might have supported Merren, either driving them away from her or winning them over to his camp.

Of late she had known time was running out. The nobles were staying away and Gello’s grip on the army had strengthened to the extent where even her most loyal regiments were under his control. Still she had hoped for a Champion to come forward. The Dragon Sword would change everything, tip the balance back in her favour. With a Champion at her side, the people would fully accept her. It would be a repeat of what history said had happened to King Riel. With the Dragon Sword, the people would rally to her and leave Gello and the nobles isolated. With the whole country against him, Gello would have no choice but to obey her. That was her dream. Part of her suspected it would not be that easy, that Gello would not go quietly. But she had to have some hope.

The Duchess Ivene’s death three months ago had briefly raised her spirits. Without his mother and mentor, Gello’s brilliant manipulation of the Royal Council was surely at an end.

But she should have guessed they had prepared for this eventuality. Of course, she never imagined their plan was to steal the Dragon Sword.

Now she was effectively a prisoner, escorted everywhere by Gello’s men. The populace had been told it was for her safety, while the presence of armed troops in every town and city was for their safety. A proclamation about martial law had gone out in her name, declaring Gello would be merely acting as regent until these troubled times were over. In reality, Gello had installed himself in the throne room and his officers went there to gain their orders.

In a way it was almost a relief. After years of stress and plotting, of trying to out-think Gello and feeling as though she was fighting with one hand tied behind her back, it was strangely relaxing having only to worry what to wear and where to go on her one outing each day.

But mostly it was humiliating, galling and frightening—for both the country and herself. She suspected she would have some sort of accident before long, or catch some fatal ‘illness’. Once the country was at war, the people would not worry about who was in charge. They just wanted a strong hand in control.

That being the case, she was still disappointed that there had not been protests about Gello’s takeover. She had not ruled for long, but she would have liked a few priests and some common people to at least show they were upset by what had happened.

She had talked it over with Rana, who had come up with an interesting theory. According to her, the people were so used to living in peace, they simply could not comprehend what Gello had done. The kings of Norstalos had always ruled well, and had shown themselves willing to step aside for cousins or nephews if that was what the Dragon Sword had wanted. After so many centuries of self-sacrifice and nobility, the people could not imagine anyone in the palace usurping power. The lack of conflict had also lulled them into a false sense of security.

She was not sure about Rana’s theory but she had not come up with anything better. All she could do was sit and wait, although she had her ladies-in-waiting—the last people loyal to her remaining in the palace—trying to find things out by talking to Gello’s officers. Or she could stare aimlessly out at the city, fruitlessly looking for a sign that people were upset and angry that she had been replaced. But there was nothing. Even the Poor Quarter was quiet. That had hurt. She knew her rule had been focused on a power struggle with Gello, rather than helping the people, but the lack of even a mild protest seemed to pass judgement on her rule.

Then came the message from the little girl. The message that Barrett and a warrior wanted to rescue her. Could Barrett have regained the Dragon Sword and found a loyal Champion? It may be a slim chance but she would take it. She summoned Rana. As the daughter of the Count of Sendric, she was Merren’s oldest, and closest, friend.

‘We need to prepare for tomorrow. This is what I want you to do,’ she instructed crisply.

Rana listened, then her jaw slowly dropped.

Martil was looking forward to finding their Queen impersonator. It had been, as his old friend Borin used to say, a long time between drinks. ‘Where is this place?’ he asked, after finally getting Karia to sleep.

‘You must ask for Lahra, at the Golden Gate House, which is three doors down from the church we were at this afternoon,’ Barrett instructed. He saw Martil’s expression and smiled. ‘I know, but my neighbours believe in having all their amenities in the one place. It is a private club, with entry carefully guarded. Only those who can pay the price get in. It will be expensive. At least a gold piece a visit.’

Conal spat out the mouthful of wine he had been about to swig. ‘By Zorva’s sweaty testicles, for that sort of money I’ll be staying home with Dame Palm and her five daughters!’ he declared.

‘Remind me why he came along, would you?’ Barrett sighed.

Apparently the city was under curfew, but that did not apply in the richer areas. Or at least, Martil could not see it being enforced in the richer areas. Barrett reckoned Gello had only retained about a thousand men in the city, which was not a large number to keep an entire city under control by the time its gates and the palace were under guard. Of course it helped that the Norstalines were a peaceable folk, he thought sourly.

He was worried he may not have been able to find the right place. During daylight hours all the large homes in the area looked the same. But when he walked past the church, he almost laughed. At night the place was immediately obvious. Giant gilded gates stood open, lit by a score of lanterns, while a pair of large men, carrying metal-tipped staffs, looked ferocious as they stood guard; an effect only slightly spoiled by the pink surcoats they wore over leather jackets.

Martil had a handful of gold ready to show them but the first guard stepped aside and grinned as Martil walked into the bright light.

‘Captain Martil! Remember me, sir?’

Martil racked his brain but was about to admit defeat when a name popped into his mind. ‘Corporal Kesbury! I promoted you at Mount Shadar!’ He remembered the man now; in his memory Kesbury was covered in blood—some of it his own—and holding what was left of his squad together by sheer force of will. He had been a strong fighter, a skilled man with the spear. He had liked the drink though, which was why he never made sergeant.

‘That’s right, sir. All the way to Bellic. Me mate Dunner here weren’t so lucky. He started with Snithe, got drafted to Macord and stayed there until Bellic.’

‘What are the two of you doing here?’

Kesbury’s smiled faltered. ‘Rallora wasn’t the same after Bellic, sir. People didn’t want us around. So we found somewhere they don’t ask questions, they just want you to be tough. There’s a lot of us up here now. Word spread around. These Norstalines think it’s a mark of success to have Rallorans guarding them. And the pay’s good.’

‘And a few extra benefits?’ Martil could not help but suggest.

‘Aye, well, they’re better looking than the horses and mules a bloke has to look after as a caravan guard, I’ll admit,’ Kesbury grinned. ‘Just go on in, sir. You’ll find two more of us on the front door. They’re good lads, even if they only served with Captain Rowran.’

They insisted on shaking Martil’s hand, then he was free to follow a pathway up to the main house, his boots crunching on the small gravel stones that made up the carriage drive. It was an imposing place, two storeys high, lit up by lanterns and decorated by fine stonework. It made Barrett’s home look shabby. But then again, at a gold piece a visit, it was no surprise they had plenty of money to spend on such things.

The front door was massive, oak reinforced with iron bands, while another two large, pink surcoat-wearing Rallorans stood guard here.

‘What do you want?’ one gruffed.

Martil opened his mouth to explain, while opening his hand to show gold, but neither was needed.

The second guard nudged the first one.

‘I know him! It’s Captain Martil, isn’t it?’

Martil was forced to admit that it was, and then had to chat to them, discover a similar story to the one Kesbury had told and shake their hands before they swung the door open for him. Martil found himself in a plushly furnished reception room. Divans in plum, pink and purple fabric were scattered around, while thick rugs lay across the wooden floor. Paintings of naked women were lit by lanterns on every panelled wall.

‘I am Sillat. How can I be of assistance?’

Martil turned to see an older woman smiling at him from behind a long counter. She was wearing a dark pink silk dress, while her hands were covered in gold rings and her lips stained an unusual shade of red.

‘I was sent here by a friend. He advised me to ask for Lahra,’ Martil said thickly.

Sillat arched an eyebrow. ‘A wise choice. And a popular one. How long do you require?’

Martil had no intention of revealing his plans to this woman. Much better to put the offer of big money direct to this Lahra. Sillat saw his hesitation and moved swiftly into her spiel. ‘We do a special rate for regular customers. It’s a gold piece for a turn of the hourglass, or five gold pieces for seven visits.’

Martil winced inwardly at the price. ‘I’ll take the seven-visits offer,’ he decided, hoping this display of gold would lull any suspicions she might have.

Sillat rummaged under the counter and produced a pink wooden token in an unusual, although rather apt, shape. She saw Martil’s expression and smiled, while her hands made his gold disappear under the counter.

‘Just show this at the gate from now on.’

‘If I must,’ Martil muttered, making sure it was stowed in the very bottom of his belt pouch.

‘Now, I’ll send for Lahra but I might suggest, if Lahra is to your taste, you may need to book ahead in future. She’s very popular with the nobility. You’re just lucky that most of our nobles are out of town at the moment. May I take your name?’

Martil hesitated. ‘I don’t think we need to bother with names,’ he shrugged.

Sillat’s smile grew even further. ‘No need to worry on that count. Welcome to the Golden Gate. It is always a pleasure to have a new member,’ she added with a wink.

Martil smiled, as he was supposed to.

Sillat then opened a large cupboard behind the counter. Inside were a dozen bellpulls, all in a different colour. She reached for the blue one and tugged it; a bell sounded somewhere further back in the house.

‘Lahra will be with you in a moment. Please wait over there.’ She gestured towards a blue-painted door on the other side of the room.

Martil walked over carefully, avoiding the large divans. By the time he reached it, the door opened and Lahra stepped through. The first thing Martil noticed was that she was wearing a green dress cut so low at the top, and so high at the bottom, that it would have caused an instant riot had she been on the street. It was hard to tell, as the Queen had been wearing a much more conservative dress, but he was fairly confident this woman was rather more well endowed than the Queen. Then he looked at her face. He had only seen the Queen briefly, but seemed able to recall her face in detail, instantly. Lahra’s resemblance was remarkable, the only differences were her lips—stained red—and the eyes. While the Queen’s eyes had seemed to Martil to be liquid green pools, filled with hidden depths, Lahra’s were glassy and shallow. But then Martil did not intend to look deeply into her eyes.

He did wonder at the nature of this country’s so-called nobles, who bowed to the Queen then rushed here to have her lookalike obey their every whim. Even Barrett had come here. As for himself, well, he would worry about being hypocritical afterwards.

Once inside one of the bedrooms, he had to force himself to concentrate on the rescue plan.

‘I have an important question for you,’ Martil said.

‘What’s that then?’ Her voice was nothing like the Queen’s. It was low and coarse.

He laid his swordbelt on a chair and turned, ready to give her his pitch about earning big money for a simple job, to find she had slipped out of her dress and was right in front of him, wearing nothing more than an expensive necklace and a welcoming smile.

‘I’ve forgotten,’ he said.

11

Martil yawned. ‘How would you like to earn some big money?’ he asked her.

She dropped the dress she was about to step back into and climbed back onto the bed. ‘I’m listening,’ she purred. ‘Big money, you say? How big?’

‘Gold—just for you, not the few silvers you get from Sillat,’ he said, knowing a place like this had to be taking most of the money earned by the whores.

‘Gold?’ She smiled, then sniffed. ‘Does that mean you are another one who wants me to dress up in a crown and give them orders before they rut?’

Martil coughed guiltily. ‘In a way. I want you to pretend to be the Queen, but there’ll be no rutting afterwards. I want you to come with me to the Church of the Sun tomorrow and then go for a carriage ride afterwards.’

She thought about this for a second. ‘Haven’t done that before. I’ve had to turn up at a lot of strange parties dressed as the Queen, though. They like me to do that. Walk around in a crown and loads of jewels but with no dress on.’

Martil could not help but think that if the Queen was counting on the Norstaline nobility to help her against Gello, she was in for a shock.

‘Two gold pieces,’ Martil offered.

‘For that price you don’t get my tits hanging out in the church, and it’ll be another gold piece if you want to rut in the carriage and I won’t clean up after the horses for less than five,’ she agreed.

Despite himself, Martil was intrigued. ‘Have they actually got you to do that?’ he asked.

‘Once. But I won’t do it again unless it’s for big money.’

Martil struggled to maintain his concentration. No wonder the country was falling apart. ‘Right. We have a deal—as long as you come back to my house with me, because we’ll be going to the church early tomorrow.’

She shrugged, which was an impressive gesture with no clothes on.

‘For two gold pieces, that’s fine. I do this sort of thing all the time. Usually Sillat takes a commission when they book me for parties, so I don’t mind getting all the gold just for me this time. Business is quiet at the moment—everyone seems to have buggered off to their country houses. And they don’t want me when the wife is around. It’s like pissing in the soup.’

Martil tried to look sympathetic.

‘The only thing is, the gate guards will probably tell Sillat that I’m going home with you. They’re supposed to. Then she’ll want her take. So unless you done a deal beforehand, I might need a bit extra on top…’

Martil smiled. ‘I don’t think the gate guards will be a problem,’ he suggested.

‘Well, I’m ready to go when you are.’

‘But I’m not finished yet,’ Martil said thickly, reaching for her.

Earl Byrez had known he would be hunted. Nobody was allowed to defy King Markuz and survive. It was a mark of the King’s weakness that Byrez had been able to walk out of the throne room alive. He had expected a visit from Cezar at any moment, although the King’s mysterious Champion seemed to be otherwise occupied.

That was an unexpected relief, as it gave him time to see his wife and children safely hidden with friends in other parts of the country. Despite its history, there were some Berellians, such as himself, who still believed in honour.

But they seemed to be shrinking in number. Byrez had been appalled to see the way his countrymen were accepting the mass conversion to Zorva. Going along with the Fearpriests, taking the first steps on the road to surrendering their souls to evil, this seemed to be an easier option than fighting against the King and a tradition of obedience. On the run himself, he was trying not to stay in one place for more than a night. He had arrived at an inn, under a different name, to find a horrific sight in the town square—a flayed body impaled on a stake. But when he learned it was the body of the town’s priest, that the whole town had watched the man’s horrific death at the hands of a Fearpriest—and cheered—it took all his discipline not to give himself away. He found himself almost wishing for a visit from Cezar, so he did not have to watch this descent into madness and evil.

Martil had to persuade Lahra to bring along the most conservative dress she had there, which was still far more—or rather, less—than a Queen would wear. But if Lahra and the Queen were going to swap clothes, it would at least be an interesting sight—one perhaps even worth all the gold he was outlaying. Lahra led him out of the building by a side door and then down a hidden path to the gate at the front. As Martil had predicted, Kesbury and Dunner were more than happy to keep quiet about Martil going home with Lahra, especially when he pressed a silver piece on them both.

‘We don’t need money, sir. I owe you my life!’ Kesbury declared.

‘This is not payment,’ Martil told him. ‘It’s just in memory of what we all went through.’

‘Then thank you, sir. And if you need a hand, just let us know!’

Luckily it was close to Barrett’s place.

‘How far is it to walk? Me feet are fair killing me in these shoes,’ she grumbled.

‘Not much further, Lahra,’ he urged her on.

‘Me name’s not Lahra, it’s Rabbag, only Sillat don’t think men will pay gold for someone with that name.’

He managed to get her to Barrett’s place without anyone seeing them and before her complaints got too loud.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll be riding tomorrow,’ he told her as Barrett opened the front door.

‘’Ere, I knows him. He’s one of my regulars. The wizard with the long staff,’ Rabbag declared as soon as she saw Barrett.

Martil said nothing, he just looked at the wizard. Barrett flushed a little. ‘Come in then. I take it she has agreed to do the job?’ he asked Martil.

‘She’ll be perfect, as long as she doesn’t open her mouth,’ Martil declared.

‘I know what to do. Don’t talk, just sit up straight and wave your hand around,’ she protested.

‘Fine. I’m off to bed,’ Barrett stated.

Rabbag linked arms with him. ‘Where do you sleep, wizard?’

Barrett regretfully stepped away. ‘There won’t be any time for anything but sleep. Conal has passed out. So you need to stand guard, Martil,’ the wizard said, with just a trace of a triumphant sneer on his face. He spun on his heel and walked away.

Sleeping with Lahra—or Rabbag—was Barrett’s guilty secret. Each time he told himself it would be the last, but it never was. Sharing that with Martil made him feel dirty. He told himself that these sessions with Lahra just made it easier for him to serve the Queen, although he had never quite convinced himself of that.

Martil reluctantly showed Rabbag to an empty bedroom—at the opposite end of the house to Karia and then grabbed a jug of water and prepared to stand guard. He found a spot beside a window overlooking the front of the house. He dragged over a chair then stared out wondering what the day would bring. He was a little concerned about what would happen to Rabbag, should things not go quite right. But he hoped even Gello would refrain from executing a whore. As for himself, he hoped the Queen would not demand he immediately unsheath the Dragon Sword and attempt to force Gello’s soldiers to turn on their master. He drew the Sword. He had a suspicion he might need it tomorrow, and wondered how he could make it return to its normal shape. He tried to concentrate but it still looked like his old shortsword. Without Barrett to advise him, he had no idea if that was because he was doing it wrong, or because he could not access its magic. And with the Sword’s appearance magically changed, he could not even see the dragon on the hilt, let alone see whether its eyes were sparkling.

The night passed slowly, and he found himself thinking about Queen Merren. His time with Rabbag had only added spice to his thoughts. Before he had learned to hate them, he had read all the sagas; he knew what often happened between queens and their champions. And why couldn’t he end up as a Prince Consort? Sure, he was a Ralloran farm boy by birth but he was also the wielder of the Dragon Sword. And if the nobles around here were interested in whores dressing up as the Queen and cleaning out their stables, then the place was certainly crying out for some new blood. He liked the thought of that. He had drawn the Dragon Sword without even thinking about it. The decision to bring it to the Queen had been made more by Karia than himself; the decision to accompany Barrett had been made for him—either he help or the Sword would kill him. He was still trying to work out how he had ended up here. One moment he was leaving Rallora, swearing to avoid all wars and bloodshed; the next he was ambushed by a family of useless bandits and all of a sudden he was the wielder of a magical Sword and about to become the focus of a civil war. Where had it all gone wrong, and just when had he chosen any of this? Was he just some sort of puppet, being used by powers beyond his knowledge? That was a cheerful thought for a quiet night, he reflected. Again he wondered what Father Nott had seen. The old priest had to be in the city. If he had had more time, he would have liked to search him out and demand some answers. He focused again on the Queen and specifically how he had felt when he saw her. The sagas all went on about love at first sight, which made him think such a thing could not exist in real life. But seeing her had been an almost physical blow. Rescuing the Queen because he was attracted to her and wanted to feel that way again was not a particularly good motive, but it gave him something to think about. He concentrated on that, spicing it up a little with the memories of his time with Lahra.

When he saw dawn lighten the sky he went upstairs and dumped a pitcher of water over Conal.

‘Wake up, I’ve stood guard all night,’ Martil told the spluttering bandit.

‘You know how to wake a man up,’ Conal grumbled. ‘I suppose I should be glad it’s not my own piss, at least.’

‘Just stand watch. I need some sleep.’

‘Been at it all night, eh? Getting your money’s worth?’

Martil ignored him and, leaving the old bandit on bleary-eyed guard, he found a comfortable-looking couch and dropped onto it with a sigh.

But it seemed he had barely closed his eyes when someone poked him in the ear.

‘Conal, this had better not be you,’ he groaned without opening his eyes.

‘Wake up. I’m hungry,’ Karia complained.

Martil was reminded of when he had taken a glancing axe blow to the head early on in the war. His helm had saved his skull but he had still been knocked down. Getting up after that, even knowing an axeman was trying to finish him off, had been one of the hardest things he had ever done. Until now. Sighing, Martil dragged himself up and made her a plate of fruit, before flopping down onto the couch once more. He was just about asleep when she jumped onto his back.

‘I’m bored now. Can we play a game or something?’

Martil managed to stop himself shouting only by a supreme effort of will.

‘I’ve been awake all night. I need some sleep. How about you sing me a few songs?’

Karia liked that idea, and sang away. It was not particularly soft, and it was certainly not tuneful, but it was strangely comforting and Martil fell asleep anyway.

He awoke to see Conal reading Karia a story, and trying to get her to pick out some words by herself.

‘It’s mid-morning. Barrett’s up and about, although the, er, lady isn’t. Thought I’d try to entertain Karia a little. Make up for last night. I’m sorry, Captain, it won’t happen again.’ Conal looked to have recovered now, and appeared faintly embarrassed.

‘What won’t?’ Martil stretched.

‘Getting drunk on duty. Damn wizard’s wine is far stronger than the goat’s piss I’ve been used to.’

Karia giggled at this, and Conal coughed. ‘Let’s go and get the captain something to eat,’ he suggested.

‘And me, too!’

Martil watched them head off towards the kitchen but just lay there for a while, then stretched and stood. He felt better now, and with some food inside him he knew he’d be ready to go. Still, he wanted to make sure he brought one of Barrett’s books along to read to Karia. She was sure to get bored in the church otherwise. He smiled to himself. She was one of the main reasons why he was in this position, yet he found he did not regret meeting her. It was not just because the dreams about Bellic had stopped. It was for all she had brought into his life. He reached out for his swordbelt and strapped it on, then grasped the Dragon Sword’s hilt. To his surprise, it turned from an old shortsword into itself. He stared at it for a moment, then willed it to turn back. He was not sure but he felt that he had seen the dragon’s eyes flash brightly at him.

‘Maybe I just needed to practise,’ he muttered, feeling pleased with himself.

They were enjoying breakfast when Barrett and a sleepy-looking Rabbag walked in.

‘Why is that woman here?’ Karia asked in a loud whisper.

‘She’s part of our trick to rescue the Queen,’ Martil whispered back, much softer.

‘Rescue the Queen? What’s that?’ Rabbag rasped, proving there was nothing wrong with her hearing.

‘It’s just a game we play,’ Martil said hastily. ‘She’s a princess and we need to rescue a queen.’

‘Oh, right. Got anything to drink?’

With that problem avoided, and equipped with food and books, they were ready to leave. Rabbag was put on Tomon, which Martil led, while Karia rode with Barrett and Conal walked. There was no way anyone would believe his shabby little donkey could possibly belong in this part of town. Except, perhaps, as a beast of burden for someone who cleaned the privies.

They reached the church without incident. Martil tied the two horses to the hitching rail, then he and Barrett ushered everyone inside. This time, almost as soon as they were inside the church, the priest bustled over to see them. Three men, a woman and a child were probably not the most unusual group he would have seen coming into his church, but this group were certainly dressed differently enough to attract his attention.

He was tall and thin, with a hooked nose and sharp grey eyes that looked them up and down carefully. If this was the church the royal family used, it was an important position for a priest. Perhaps even a fast track to a bishopric, Martil thought. This priest certainly looked the ambitious type.

‘Can I help you? You do know this is a church?’ he said superciliously, staring with contempt at the scruffy, one-handed Conal and the scantily-clad Rabbag.

‘We are looking for a private prayer room. We seek to beseech Aroaril to intervene in the case of our misled sister, and unfortunate uncle,’ Martil said soothingly. He and Barrett had been worried the wizard would be recognised, so Barrett had left his staff at the oak tree ready for a quick escape. He wore a hooded cloak and waited at the back of the group. ‘Naturally we would be making a substantial donation to the church, and might even need to pay for your intervention later, should our prayers not be answered.’ Martil produced a small pouch, which he offered to the priest.

The priest’s expression thawed a little as he felt the weight of the pouch, then he looked inside and smiled warmly.

‘Of course the church seeks to bring sinners back to the path of righteousness. How long will you need the room?’ He took out a gold piece and examined it idly.

‘Hey, that better not be one of mine!’ Rabbag snarled.

‘It could be some time,’ Martil admitted to the priest, as Barrett hastily, and quietly, reassured Rabbag that they had plenty of gold.

‘I understand. Please call me if you wish to pay for a more personal intervention.’ The priest smiled, and Martil noticed his eyes lingered on Rabbag’s ample cleavage as he spoke.

They were given a small prayer room, which came with just the sunburst symbol of Aroaril on one wall, two pews and a seat. Barrett pushed back his hood and peered out of the door until he was sure the priest had gone.

‘Father Prent’s a powerful man in the church,’ Barrett sniffed. ‘It is rumoured he knows about every scandal in the last ten years and has every priest with a dark secret in his pocket. That is how he secured this post, although he is no friend of the church hierarchy or indeed the Queen.’

‘Whadda we do now?’ Rabbag demanded.

‘We wait,’ Martil said simply. ‘You can sleep, read, or try to reconnect with Aroaril.’

‘Sleep it is then,’ she sniffed.

Strangely, Karia was not much of a problem. She enjoyed being read to by Martil, and there was plenty of food for her to eat. Then she let Conal read to her while Martil dozed for a while. Even when she had lived with Father Nott, she had not had this much attention. After all, Father Nott had to look after his parish as well. But now, all she had to do was ask, and people did things for her. It was wonderful!

Meanwhile Barrett paced up and down and often peered out the door. To think he was this close to freeing the Queen had him excited, but he was still afraid. So much could go wrong. Although he was sure his powers would allow him to survive, the Queen must not lose this chance for freedom—and he did not want to lose this chance to impress the Queen.

‘Where are they? When will this waiting end?’ he demanded.

‘Isn’t he annoying?’ Karia remarked, which Martil found hilarious.

When Barrett wasn’t pacing, he was drumming his fingers on a pew, or tossing an apple idly up and down in the air. Often he looked at Rabbag with a strange expression on his face.

‘You need to relax. You’ll use up all your energy,’ Martil suggested coolly.

‘I’m worried about the Queen,’ Barrett snapped back.

Martil shrugged and went back to reading to Karia, only she looked up, no longer interested in the book.

‘I can hear something!’ she said excitedly.

‘That’s her snores,’ Conal grunted, gesturing towards where Rabbag lay on a pew, her mouth open and a trail of spittle oozing onto the wood.

‘Make way!’ A soldier’s cry brought them to alertness.

‘Get ready!’ Barrett barked, which made Rabbag snort and sit up, rubbing her eyes blearily.

‘Time to earn your money,’ the wizard told her.

‘All right. Where do you want to do it?’ she said automatically.

Luckily the sound of hooves on cobbles and the rumble of carriage wheels prevented Karia’s questions. Martil took a deep breath. He felt his heart start racing and his stomach churn. These were familiar feelings, which would stay until he started fighting, which he rather hoped would not be at all today. He had had a dispute with Havrick, but that was only one officer. Now he was going to set himself against Gello and make himself the focal point of a probable civil war. The very thing he had sworn to avoid. Again he had that feeling of being pushed along by events. Just because he had stopped to talk to a bandit in the woods, and had lost his temper. It was ridiculous. At least back in Rallora he had been fighting for a cause he believed in, right up until the end. This was a cause he barely understood. A girl’s suggestion, a wizard’s warning and the smile of a queen; that was all it had taken to grip him. How could it have happened so easily? But going back was not an option and there was no time to think about it any further.

‘Get ready,’ he said softly. ‘Stay quiet until we hear the Queen enter.’

‘No! You and Karia go outside. You are unknown to them. Pretend to be praying and then you can signal us,’ Barrett hissed.

Martil saw the sense of that at once. ‘Come on,’ he held out his hand to Karia, who took it and followed him out into the church.

They slid into a pew as the priest hurried past them, as he had obviously heard the sounds of the Queen’s escort as well. Now these sounds stopped, then the church door banged open and the Queen’s party walked in. Martil turned his head—he knew everyone else in the church would as well—to see the Queen and four ladies-in-waiting walk in, all wearing long hooded cloaks.

Father Prent walked up to her. ‘Can I do anything for you, your majesty?’ the priest asked smoothly.

‘Unless you plan to ask Aroaril to visit a plague upon Duke Gello, I think I can find my way to a pew safely,’ the Queen said crisply.

‘As your majesty wishes.’ Prent bowed his head and walked away.

Martil watched both the Queen, and then Prent until he disappeared into his office. Her every movement was imbued with purpose and he could not take his eyes off her. He needed to make a good impression on her. He had to attract her attention in a dignified, professional way. He was trying to think what he could do when Karia jumped onto a pew and waved furiously.

The Queen saw them instantly and hurried over, trailing ladies-in-waiting.

‘The warrior and the little girl. But where is Barrett?’ she asked urgently.

Martil had been trying to think of something intelligent to say, but his tongue would not obey him. Rather than stand there like a fool, he stepped across the aisle and knocked on the door of the prayer room. Instantly Barrett stepped out. The Queen gave a soft cry of delight and Martil was disturbed to see an expression of rapt adoration on Barrett’s face.

‘You did it then!’ she exclaimed.

‘Yes, your majesty. As I promised I would.’

Martil decided to step in then. ‘Explanations must wait. We need to hurry.’

‘Of course,’ the Queen agreed. ‘Barrett, what is your plan?’

Martil had no intention of letting Barrett take the credit. ‘We have hired a lady of the night to replace you. You will need to swap clothes. Your ladies-in-waiting will take her back to the palace, where she will change again, then leave, dressed as a servant girl. Meanwhile, we will have slipped out of the city, using magic.’

‘A simple plan. Good—those are usually the best. Gello’s men will suspect nothing. They think nobody is prepared to help me. The whore—is it Lahra?’ the Queen asked.

‘Y—your majesty!’ Barrett gasped.

‘Calm down, Barrett. I’m not going to let something like that concern me. We have much bigger problems.’

Barrett stepped aside, allowing Conal to guide a bleary-looking Rabbag into the main body of the church. The Queen looked at her critically.

‘There is some likeness, but really, their brains must be elsewhere,’ she commented.

Martil and Barrett exchanged a quick look, although Martil’s attention was almost instantly diverted by the sight of the Queen starting to unbutton her cloak. She shrugged off the long hooded garment to reveal she was wearing a leather jerkin over a green tunic top and trousers. The trousers were reinforced on the inside with leather, making them ideal for riding, and she was also wearing sensible leather boots. ‘I can pick up formal dresses from a hundred homes,’ she smiled.

There was silence from both Martil and Barrett. The Queen’s clothes were eminently practical but were, of necessity, also figure-hugging.

‘What is going on here?’ Father Prent stared at the strange party in his church. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

Martil’s hand almost reached for his sword, then he realised who he was dealing with. But the Queen was faster.

‘Father, we are taking direct action to save this country. If you feel unable to help us, as you have said before, then perhaps you should go back into your office and pray,’ she said.

Prent looked at the Queen’s outfit, then to Rabbag, and comprehension dawned on his face. ‘You are seeking to escape and take back the throne. This will mean civil war. You cannot do this!’ he gasped.

‘You think you can forbid me?’ The Queen’s voice was cold enough to freeze most men but Prent just continued on.

‘It is your duty to submit! Women were not meant to rule! It is an offence against Aroaril and the dragons—and it was Aroaril’s judgement that saw the Dragon Sword stolen and the Duke ascend to the throne. To defy His decision will doom us all! I demand you surrender the traitors with you and beg forgiveness! Duke Gello must rule Norstalos!’

‘We have the Dragon Sword,’ Barrett declared. ‘That proves your words false!’

‘Enough!’ The Queen’s voice ended the debate. ‘Father, if I thought for one heartbeat that stepping aside for Duke Gello would bring peace to this country then I would do so. But he will be this country’s worst nightmare. I was not the one who started this but, by Aroaril, I shall finish it.’ She turned away, dismissing Prent. ‘Now let us hurry! Get the whore ready!’

‘A whore? In here?’ Prent gasped.

‘Father, another word from you and I shall have this warrior remove your tongue!’ the Queen snapped.

Martil half-drew his sword, to emphasise her words.

With a combination of outrage and fear on his face, Prent sank into a pew.

‘Come on. The guards will be expecting us to take some time but they will be alerted if we have any more loud arguments.’ The Queen waved to her ladies-in-waiting, who immediately started buttoning Rabbag into the hooded cloak.

‘’Ere! What’s going on?’ Rabbag protested.

‘Silence, woman! Do not speak again!’ the Queen said and Rabbag, cowed, fell quiet.

As soon as the ladies had Rabbag dressed, they opened their own cloaks and produced small leather backpacks that they handed to Conal.

‘Gold and gems. Enough to finance a war,’ one explained, at which point Conal’s eyes lit up.

‘Good luck, your majesty,’ another said, then stepped forward to embrace the Queen, who waved them away.

‘There is no time for this, Rana,’ she said irritably.

‘Are you sure of this course of action, your majesty?’ Rana asked tremulously.

‘I am, Rana. I trust Barrett. And if there is a chance to take back my throne, I will not let it slip away. I will not let Gello defeat me!’

‘Barrett I know. But what of the warrior? Can he be trusted?’

Barrett turned to Martil. ‘Show them,’ he urged.

So Martil drew the Dragon Sword and willed it to become its own form. Instantly it seemed to catch what little light there was in the church, and lift the gloom. Martil was watching the Queen, and was delighted to see her face transform, worry lines smoothing away and a smile that could only be considered beautiful light her face. For a long moment, everyone stared at the Sword, and out of the corner of his eye, Martil saw the priest’s jaw drop. But he was more interested in the Queen’s reaction.

‘I have a Champion at last!’ she exulted.

‘I am yours to command,’ Martil said, without really thinking about it. Then he realised what he had said and sheathed the Dragon Sword, turning it back into an old-looking sword, before he did anything else stupid. That seemed to wake everyone up.

‘We must hurry,’ the Queen said briskly. ‘You must get the whore back to the palace before anything is suspected.’

‘’Ere! I can play a lady!’ Rabbag declared.

‘And she must not talk, under any circumstances,’ the Queen continued.

Martil produced two gold pieces and handed them to Rana.

‘That’s her payment. See that she gets it,’ he instructed. ‘But not until she’s back at the palace.’

‘Good luck, Rana.’ The Queen waved the ladies away. Martil could see a couple of them were almost in tears.

‘Go with Aroaril, your majesty. Let us hope we can welcome you back into your city in triumph soon.’

Rana then had the ladies form up around Rabbag, so her walk, which was designed to show off her assets, could be more easily disguised.

‘Go!’ Barrett urged them.

‘We should get out of sight. In here, perhaps.’ Martil gestured to the prayer room they had been using, and they hurried inside, Conal herding Father Prent with them, as Rana gave one last wave and then opened the church doors.

‘We just have to wait until we hear them go, then it’s back to my house and out of the city,’ Barrett said quickly.

Prent started to rise, until Conal showed him the business end of a knife and the priest subsided weakly onto a seat.

The Queen listened for a moment for sounds that Rabbag had been discovered, then smiled. ‘There is so much I want to know! How did you find the Sword—and how did you find a Champion? You are not Norstaline…your voice tells me you must be Ralloran?’

‘That’s right, your majesty,’ Martil agreed.

‘And the man with one hand. Are you Tetran or Norstaline? I can hear both accents in your voice.’

‘Once of Norstalos, late of Tetril, now just following Captain Martil,’ Conal grinned.

The Queen looked back at Martil. ‘Captain Martil? A Ralloran? Not the Captain Martil, the Butcher of Bellic?’ The smile on her face died and she stared at him coldly.

Martil felt as though he had taken another blow to the stomach, only this one was truly painful.

‘The same,’ he sighed.

‘But how could the Sword accept him?’ she demanded of Barrett.

Barrett shrugged. ‘You saw it change for him. Obviously there is more to him than just his reputation. But this is neither the time nor the place to…wait!’

They all heard it then, shouted orders followed by hooves clattering on the cobbles as the escort formed up outside.

‘Luckily my cousin’s arrogance is unsurpassed. He does not think a woman can run a country, nor does he imagine that she could dare to escape,’ the Queen said coldly.

They sat in silence, imagining what was going on outside. Had the ladies been able to get Rabbag into the carriage without anyone noticing? Would guards come flooding back in here? Martil contented himself with thinking that at least the Queen had not ordered him to show the Dragon Sword to the soldiers and try and win them over.

The only one who was not feeling the tension was Karia, who was trying to find the place in her book when a whip cracked and both horses and carriage rattled off down the street.

‘We did it!’ Conal laughed.

‘Gently. We should wait for a while before leaving. They need to get out of sight. The last thing we want is for someone to look over their shoulder,’ Barrett instructed.

‘But we also want to be long gone before they discover I have been replaced,’ the Queen corrected him. ‘Let us wait just inside the doors.’

They walked out; Father Prent let them get a safe distance ahead of him then called to the Queen.

‘Your majesty, I demand you reconsider! Stay here, praying to Aroaril for guidance until the whore is discovered and your guards return!’

‘What?’ the Queen’s voice crackled with anger and Prent flinched. ‘Father, you take too much on yourself. When I return, I shall be speaking to the Archbishop about your tenure here. Your tendency to interfere in secular matters is a great concern, almost as great as your seeming inability to grasp reality. The throne is mine by right, and I now have a Champion to wield the Dragon Sword. I shall rule this country, and one of my first acts on returning to the throne will see you sent to minister to the goblins.’

Martil could not help but smile at the horrified expression on Prent’s face. The goblins, the derogatory term for the primitive men who lived in the mountains north of Norstalos, and worshipped spirits of the air and water. The Norstalines often sent missionaries to convert them to Aroaril, but these missionaries were counted outrageously successful if they returned with their lives.

‘We have waited long enough. It is time to go,’ the Queen declared.

Martil was not sure they had, but there was no stopping her. She stormed out, leaving a stunned Prent, so they hurried to catch her as she stepped cautiously out into the street. The cavalry had indeed gone, so Barrett led the way to the horses. Karia and the Queen climbed onto Tomon, Barrett and the bags of gems were loaded onto his horse, and Martil and Conal walked alongside, trying to look casual as they hurried as fast as they dared.

It felt as though everyone was watching them, but there were few people around and none shouted out or exclaimed at the sight of Queen Merren. Martil was just beginning to think they had pulled off the perfect escape, when the church bells began to ring, which everyone knew was a traditional way of sounding an alarm.

‘That bastard!’ Martil spat. ‘We should have cut his bloody head off!’

‘We must hurry!’ The Queen had paled slightly, but her jaw was set in determination.

They were almost at Barrett’s house when a shout warned them. A squad of troopers was galloping after them, lances levelled.

‘We won’t have enough time!’ Martil warned. ‘They’ll be onto us before Barrett can get us through that tree! Knock some off their horses and I’ll take care of the rest!’

‘No! I need my strength! My traps will take care of them,’ Barrett declared.

‘Do as Barrett says!’ the Queen ordered and Martil ground his teeth in frustration.

They hurried around the side of the house, Martil and Conal hanging onto the stirrups of the horses so they could keep up. But the troopers were closing fast. Martil glanced over his shoulder as the pounding of hooves on the driveway grew louder. But it wasn’t the horses he was worried about—it was the long lances the troopers held, with the large, diamond-shaped blades.

Then they were around the back of the house and Barrett waved his hand at the pile of sticks that had amused Conal when they had first arrived. These flew through the air, to scatter themselves over the ground.

‘That’ll save us!’ Barrett told the Queen smugly.

Martil looked at the flimsy sticks, then at the troopers in steel breastplates, mail shirts and polished helms, mounted on powerful warhorses, carrying swords and lances.

Just as he opened his mouth to demand Barrett do something a little more spectacular, the horses galloped over the sticks. Instantly these came to life, tying horses’ legs together or even tying themselves to the legs of two different horses. A proud, confident charge became a shambles in an instant, with horses rearing and falling, men going in all directions, horses screaming, men bellowing, the sound of armour striking stone, the sound of men and horses breaking.

Martil actually let go of Tomon’s stirrup in surprise as Barrett let out a howl of triumph.

‘See? All you need is magic!’ the wizard laughed.

For a heartbeat, it seemed he was right. But from the shambles of the charge, four troopers had managed to survive unhurt—and these four slowly got to their feet, drew swords and began to advance.

‘Barrett! What now?’ the Queen demanded.

But Barrett hesitated. Stopping these four men would rob him of valuable energy. Martil saw his chance to show the Queen who was more valuable to her.

‘Leave them to me. I’ll get rid of them and then we can escape safely,’ he declared.

The Queen looked doubtful. ‘They’re all wearing armour! How can you fight them alone?’

‘It’s what I’ve been doing most of my life,’ Martil told her confidently. After all, they had to be shaken up after that fall.

‘You there, help him!’

In response to her order, Conal joined Martil between two long herb beds, while Barrett, Karia and the Queen backed further away down the garden.

‘Go! I can handle them myself,’ Martil told Conal.

‘Bugger that. I can’t run any further, and I want to earn my share of the reward,’ Conal puffed.

‘Give me room,’ Martil instructed. ‘They’ll get in each others’ way in here. Just hold back any that try to get past me.’

He drew both his swords and loosened his shoulders and wrists with a series of swings. The Dragon Sword still looked like an old shortsword but it felt light and incredibly well balanced. The nerves he had had this morning were gone, as he had known they would be. He had learned over the years to relax and let his body fight for him. Thinking too much slowed him down. Far better to let his instincts take over and let his muscles react as they were trained to do. Those who thought about what they were doing before they actually did it were that fraction slower, and eventually ended up dead.

Two of the troopers picked up broken-off lances, now little more than short spears, and raced at him. He saw instantly they would try to keep him at a distance with those, and herd him into a corner where he could be finished off.

No sooner had he thought that, than he sprang to meet them, the Dragon Sword cutting off the tip of the makeshift spear carried by the man on his right, his old shortsword opening the other soldier’s throat a heartbeat later. The other two were yelling war cries and trying to get around the raised garden bed, so Martil decided to give himself some room. The second man, who still held the splintered lance, was wearing a breastplate, so Martil just jabbed the Dragon Sword at the centre of his chest, bracing his wrist for the force of the impact. He expected it to check the man, force him to back away and create some space. But instead of the shock of metal ramming against metal, the Dragon Sword slid through the steel breastplate, the point slicing through the armour at the back as well, emerging in a spray of blood.

Martil stopped in shock, his eyes unable to believe what had happened. Swords could not cut through armour as if it were butter. Without thinking, he twisted his wrist and pulled the Sword out. It no longer resembled an old sword but had taken its true form. He stared at it. Not a drop of blood marred the surface. The man he had stabbed was also in shock. He stared down at the hole in the front of his armour, touched it as if he could not believe such a thing were possible, then a gout of blood spurted out from the rent and he fell backwards.

The other soldiers had not seen what had happened, and they charged in regardless. Martil was still distracted by what the Dragon Sword had done and would have been unable to defend himself except Conal raced in, screaming at the top of his voice, swinging Martil’s spare sword with plenty of venom but hardly any effect. It was just enough, because the sheer ferocity of his attack made one of the soldiers hesitate, and alerted Martil. He spun around and used his left-hand sword to block the blow that would have killed him. He stepped back and decided to test the Sword. He feinted towards one man, then brought the Sword back around in a vicious arc that sliced through lance, breastplate, mail, bone and flesh. The soldier screamed in agony and disbelief as his steel breastplate and mail shirt, which should have stopped all but the heaviest of axe blows, offered him no more protection than cloth. Martil was filled with exultation at the power of the Sword. No wonder men would rally to it! You could not be stopped while holding such a weapon. He felt as if he could take on an entire regiment of Berellian axemen alone, if he had this in his hands. He was not prepared to let the last soldier get away, so he lunged at him.

Terrified of this weapon that cut through the finest armour, the soldier flailed wildly as he backed away. Martil blocked one blow with ease, then brought the Dragon Sword down in a brutal blow that split apart the man’s helmet and head, spraying blood and brains all over Barrett’s carefully-tended plants.

‘I’ll say one thing, I’m glad I’m fighting with you, and not against you,’ Conal commented.

Martil looked down at the wreckage of what had been four men picked by Gello for their skills. He was splattered with blood, but the Dragon Sword was spotlessly clean. He sheathed it.

‘Now I see why men want this so badly—to carry it in battle is to feel like a god,’ he breathed. He felt like laughing. Normally combat drained him emotionally, physically and mentally. But the way the Sword had cut apart those men left him feeling as though he could do anything.

‘A very messy god,’ Conal stepped around a particularly large pool of blood. ‘Time to go, before any more turn up.’

Martil shook himself. ‘You’re right. And thank you. You saved me back there—I’ll not forget it.’

‘Me either—I intend to make it work for me,’ Conal grinned.

‘Well, that’s the end to Conal the Cowardly. No coward I know would attack a pair of heavy cavalrymen with a shortsword.’ Martil clapped him on the shoulder and they hurried to join the others.

Barrett had already opened a path to the oak tree, and was sitting on the grass before it, eating almond-honey sweets and drinking water.

‘Are you hurt?’ the Queen demanded as they ran up.

‘Not my blood,’ Martil smiled. ‘That Sword is unbelievable! It just cut right through the armour those troopers were wearing! No wonder they all want it!’

‘Are you all right?’ Karia asked nervously. She had not wanted to see the fighting. Now the sight of Martil covered in blood was scary enough, but there was a look in his eyes that was worse. He looked like her da had before he used to attack travellers. She found herself trembling and turned away, unable to look at the blood on his face and clothes.

‘I’m fine,’ Martil said, looking down at Barrett, wanting to impress him and the Queen with what he had done. ‘Is this the right time for a picnic, wizard? Although the way that Sword works, I could take care of the entire company of Gello’s lapdogs.’

‘I’m just gathering my energy,’ Barrett said stiffly. ‘And how would you fare if they turned up with a squad of archers? Magic is what will save us here.’

Martil snorted. He was sure the Queen would know he was a worthy Champion. He squatted down on the ground and ripped up handfuls of grass to try and scrub his hands and face clean.

‘Does that hurt?’ Karia kneeled down beside him. She liked assisting people who were hurt, she had enjoyed going out with Father Nott when he had helped the sick.

‘No! It’s not mine—those troopers were nowhere near good enough to hurt me,’ he snapped.

Karia’s face crumpled. Why wasn’t he being nice? Was it something she had done?

Martil saw her eyes brim with tears and thought he should say something to her but the aftermath of the fighting, as well as his anger towards Barrett, ruled that out. Then horns sounded in the distance and they all turned to Barrett. He gestured at the seedlings between them and the house and these became trees again, sealing off the oak from view. Then he placed his hand upon it and closed his eyes. Sweat stood out on his face, and his breathing came harder, before he thrust his staff into, and through, the tree.

Martil wrapped Tomon’s reins around his wrist, then, holding the staff in one hand and Karia’s hand in the other, he stepped into and through the tree, emerging in an unfamiliar area. This clearing had no grass, instead leaf litter and a few stunted bushes. It looked as if it were in a real forest. Immediately afterwards came the Queen leading Barrett’s horse, Conal and his heavily-laden donkey, and then the wizard himself, who pulled his staff back through with a dramatic flourish.

‘Is it sealed behind us?’ the Queen asked.

For answer, Barrett merely rapped on the trunk with his staff, proving it was solid.

‘We are a few miles out of Sendric, near another royal magician’s lodge,’ he sighed. ‘We should rest there before going further.’ Then he almost slid down his staff to sit on the ground, puffing and panting, trying to get his breath back.

The Queen, meanwhile, clapped her hands together in delight, spun on the spot, embraced Karia, patted Conal on the shoulder, kissed Barrett on the cheek and then paused in front of Martil.

‘We have much to talk about. But I do want to thank you now for your help, and reassure you that Norstalos will not forget you,’ she said solemnly.

Martil felt his cheeks flush a little and he struggled to focus on her eyes as he gazed at her. She was almost his height and as he looked at her, he could feel his stomach turning over slowly, a sensation he had not experienced since asking his first girl to dance at the annual Festival of Aroaril.

‘We must get away,’ Barrett’s rasping voice broke the long silence and they both turned.

Martil led the way, or rather led Barrett on his horse. The Queen followed, with Karia in front of her, on Tomon. Karia, still smarting from Martil’s dismissal, rode in silence, not even bothering to ask questions. Martil knew from her silence that she was upset but he could not do anything while he had to watch the wizard. He glanced up at Barrett. The wizard did not seem as tired as when he had brought them to the capital. But still he swayed in the saddle, and Martil could not help but think he was putting it on in order to look more impressive for the Queen.

The lodge was about half a mile away, and was far larger than the one near the border. There were bedrooms for all, as well as a large kitchen, a dining room and a lounging area. It also had stables out the back. Conal looked after the horses, while Barrett went off for a rest. The kitchen was well stocked with supplies of dried fruit, salt, dried meat and oats. It had been kept clean and had a faint smell of lavender, imparted by dried bunches of the herb.

‘I wonder how much it costs to keep these places nice and neat, and ready for the one time in years when the magician turns up,’ Conal observed sourly after wandering around. ‘How many of these things are there and why were they built?’

‘They date from the days of King Riel, when the Royal Magician was the ruler’s eyes and ears around the country. I have no idea how many there are and I, for one, won’t be querying the cost next budget time,’ Merren said dryly.

Martil washed, changed his clothes, then started to cook a simple stew of oats and dried meat. He managed to get Karia involved in the cooking, in an attempt to appease her, but it was obvious she was still not happy with him. He sighed but he had other people to impress, as well.

‘Not much of a celebratory dinner,’ he warned the Queen. ‘I’m afraid we can’t give you something better for your first night of freedom.’

The Queen laughed. ‘Rest assured it will taste sweet indeed, knowing it will be eaten without Gello’s guards hovering around. Although I wish I could see Gello’s face!’

12

Duke Gello was not thinking about control of Norstalos. That job was almost complete. True, Chelten and the other hand-picked men of his guard, the ones he had trusted to get the Dragon Sword out of the country, had failed to send a message saying they were safe in Tetril but that was a minor matter. Chelten had never failed before. The main thing was the Dragon Sword was gone, the Queen was a prisoner and he was strengthening his hold on the country by the day. No, Norstalos was not his concern now. Instead he had maps of Tetril and Berellia out, and he was trying to decide where he should strike first.

Every so often he would walk across to the throne and sit on it, just to see how it felt. The throne room was a special place for him. It had been the scene of happy memories, as well as one terrible one. But that was why he was here now. To wipe out that memory and regain the feeling he had had when he was a boy. He could remember his mother bringing him here, telling him it would all be his, one day. Arching pillars, a soaring roof, the marble floor, massive murals depicting King Riel saving the dragon, towering windows that looked across the rich city, space for hundreds of people to gather—they all spoke of the grandeur of Norstalos. As a boy he had dreamed so many times of sitting here—almost every time his mother spoke to him, she would begin by saying, ‘When you are King…’ As he grew, it was all he thought about. Then had come the devastating day—his twenty-first birthday, the day when he was acclaimed as a man. The day that should have been his triumph, when he should have drawn the Dragon Sword. His mother had told him it was his birthright, his destiny, as natural as breathing. But the Dragon Sword had refused him. The memory was still fresh, the pain still raw, although he had tried so hard to forget it, to bury it away. The throne room had been packed. Every noble, every army officer, every friend Gello had was there to witness it. It had been a massive celebration. Then had come the moment when he tried to draw the fabled Sword and failed. The cheers and chatter had died to horrified silence as all watched the young Gello tug futilely on the hilt. Watched the tears running down his face, heard the Duchess Ivene scream in disbelief and anger.

Gello had refused to stop, had kept trying to draw the Sword until his friend and bodyguard, Chelten, had rushed forward to stop his humiliation.

And, just before he had been taken out of the throne room, he had seen his cousin Merren’s face. Unlike most of the others, she had not turned away in either embarrassment or pity, but had kept watching. And he had seen the fierce triumph on her face, realised that this meant she would become Queen, would take the throne that should have been his.

In that moment, with his cheeks burning with shame, tears running down his face, everything had changed. His plans for making Norstalos great were forgotten. Instead he was filled with an anger so fierce, so hot, that he had almost cried out. He had sworn revenge, not just on her but on all of them. He would take the throne, no matter what. He would wipe out this dishonour. This would not be the deed he would be remembered for. He would not become Gello the Unworthy in the history books. He would show them all! He would be the greatest King the world had ever seen—better yet, he would be an Emperor! Emperor Gello! Ruling a massive continent and beyond!

That became the only thing he cared about. How he got there, what he had to do to make it possible, that meant nothing. He would not stop until he could wipe away every trace of his humiliation. Nothing and nobody else mattered.

And now he had taken the first major step.

But it was not enough. He could sit here in the throne room and still hear the laughter ringing in his ears, taste the shame thick in his throat.

To wash that away, he had to do more. In his mind’s eye, his armies marched in all directions, smashing his opponents to submission, bringing back mountains of treasure and lines of weeping women. His name would echo down through history every child in the world, even those who had never heard of Norstalos before, would know his name! Gello the Triumphant! Then, perhaps, he would be able to forget the past.

Part of him mourned the fact his mother was not there to see his triumph but mostly he felt relief. At first she had blamed him for his failure to draw the Dragon Sword, told him he had not listened to her enough. Her control of him, already strict, became absolute over the next twelve years as they plotted to take what had been denied them. In the last couple of years, he had begun to chafe under her tight grip. He was going to be the ruler, not her! She had even begun to suggest she should take the throne as regent, that he only get the crown after her death. Well, that was not going to happen. He would not be denied again. They had fought and, at the end of it, he had found himself stumbling from her bedchamber, covered in blood. Chelten had cleaned him up and covered it up, the old Duchess buried in a sealed coffin a day later. He could not remember exactly what had happened, could only remember sobbing his way through the funeral service then waking up the next day feeling like a prisoner enjoying his first taste of freedom. For now the way was clear for him to take the throne. No, it had been a terrible mistake, but it had been for the best. After all, if she had still been around, she would be interfering even now. He could almost hear her voice in the back of his head, telling him to investigate why the men with the Dragon Sword had not sent him a message. Telling him to disband the regiments loyal to the Queen—and telling him to have her killed. Well, he was not going to listen to her any more. He was the one in charge now. He was the one about to become a legend.

He turned again to his maps, as he had done hundreds of times before. Of course, soon he would be invading for real, and this added extra spice. The Tetran army was a joke; he could smash it with two thousand infantry and his heavy cavalry regiment. But Tetril was a poor country. It had no gold or silver mines and would provide little for the invader. On the other hand, Berellia was a rich country, with gold and silver mines aplenty. However, while its army had been shattered by years of war with Rallora and Aviland, it still had a core of several thousand veterans. It also had plenty of strong castles and natural fortifications that could tie up a campaign for years. And he knew the Berellian King was working hard to build up his army once more. It was a tough decision, but he relished having the chance to make it. He was thinking about a crushing victory in Tetril first; to blood the new recruits he intended to amass, and to begin his legend of invincibility, when a terrified officer burst into the throne room. Gello looked up in surprise. He had heard the church bells ring out, but had ignored them. His guard detachments on each gate had been told to signal by trumpet.

‘What is it?’ he snapped.

‘Your grace—it’s the Queen.’ The young officer wore Gello’s red surcoat, the one he had insisted the entire army adopt now he was in power, and the lance badge over Gello’s double-sword insignia showed he was from the heavy cavalry. He also wore an expression of abject terror.

‘What now? Is she after permission to visit the dressmaker because she cannot find a gown that coordinates with her shoes?’ Gello smirked.

‘Your Grace—she’s escaped!’

‘What?’ he spat.

‘The Queen’s Magician, Barrett. He and a handful of others, including a warrior using the Dragon Sword, switched the Queen for a whore while she was in church, then must have used magic to escape,’ the officer gabbled away.

It took a moment for it to all sink in, then Gello’s brain threw up the one phrase that had leapt out. ‘The Dragon Sword?’ Gello’s colossal anger was tempered with a flicker of fear. Having the Queen escape was bad enough, but with her was a Champion with the Dragon Sword? ‘Are you sure?’

‘Your grace, he cut apart a patrol. One stroke of his sword opened up steel breastplates like they were wet parchment. I would not have believed it possible unless I had seen it myself.’

Gello gulped. ‘Send word to every garrison commander. I want every town locked tighter than a priestess’s thighs in a cavalry barracks. If they hear of any meetings, protests or rallies, they are to use whatever force they deem necessary to stop them. Now get me my war captains.’

‘Yes, your grace.’ The officer bowed and backed swiftly out of the room, visibly relieved to have escaped with his head.

Gello sat down heavily. He felt a pang at the loss of Chelten—he had been by his side for years and his loyalty was without question. The Queen would not have the Sword if Chelten was alive. But he pushed aside that regret and quickly reviewed his plans. He had forced as much of the army as he could to recite a pledge of honour to serve only him. His mother had spent months poring over writings about the Sword, trying to find weaknesses, and she believed it would not be able to force men to break an oath. His plan was more straightforward. As soon as the Queen and her Champion arrived at a town and tried to raise an army using the Sword, he would descend on them with a massive force and crush them. The Sword could only do so much. Peasants and city workers, even in their thousands, were no match for heavy cavalry and trained infantry.

Still, he worried. If he lost now, he would be haunted by not just one but two failures. He could never live that down. He must do whatever it took to win. A thought struck him. What if he forced the army to do things that the Sword would not like? Reputedly, it was only after good men. What if he turned his army loose on a few villages? Killing and raping a few peasants would not affect the country much—there were always plenty of peasants—but it might just prevent his army defecting. And it would be perfect training for when they invaded other countries.

He smiled to himself, drew a piece of parchment towards himself and began to write.

‘Your grace, another officer to see you,’ a servant announced.

Gello waved the man in, hoping it was to report the whereabouts of the Queen. Instead, a dishevelled officer he had never seen before rushed into the throne room. Gello recoiled a little. The man wore a blood- and travel-stained surcoat that bore the light cavalry crest of a galloping horse and he had blackened eyes and a swollen nose.

‘Your grace! I have vital news! The Queen’s Magician attacked us and, thanks to a Ralloran warrior, escaped. He and this man, who may have the Dragon Sword, are on their way to the capital to rescue the Queen.’

‘You’re a little late,’ Gello said sardonically. He was about to order the man dragged from his presence and whipped for not delivering the news sooner, when he remembered where he had sent the light cavalry to search for Barrett. ‘Have you ridden from the Tetran border?’

‘Yes, your grace. I killed four horses getting here.’

Gello was impressed. Such devotion to duty, such single-minded purpose, allied with a complete disregard for those beneath him. These were rare qualities, and ones he prized highly.

‘What is your name?’

‘Lieutenant Havrick of the Lights, sir.’

‘Do you know who this Ralloran is?’

‘He claims to be War Captain Martil, one of the Butchers of Bellic. I shall never forget his face. Twice he has defied me, the second time he did this,’ Havrick gestured towards his broken nose.

Gello stood and began to pace. He knew Captain Martil. He had followed his exploits—and his victories—with interest. The man had the sort of reputation he wanted. He had felt the two of them would have much in common, would be able to share warriors’ tales over a drink. Of course, he was a Ralloran, and not nobly-born, but you couldn’t have everything. If the Ralloran was helping Merren, that was a concern—and an opportunity. Beating such a celebrated war captain would only help Gello’s legend grow. He thought quickly. This Martil must have been able to draw the Sword, judging by what he did to those troopers. But being a Ralloran, he would not realise the Sword did not like being used for killing. Too much fighting and he would be unable to use its power to rally men. He could use this to his advantage, and test out his theory about his men being able to withstand the Sword’s power at the same time.

‘Lieutenant, are you ready for command?’ Gello spun on his heel to face the officer.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Excellent. I’m going to give you two companies of heavy cavalry and three of your own lights. As soon as we discover where this man is hiding, you will take these men, along with the authority to command any local garrisons and press into service local militia. Form an army and use them to crush whatever pitiful force he has raised. You will use whatever means are necessary and will let nothing stand in your way. If anyone, be they farmers, townsfolk or nobles, tries to hinder you, be utterly ruthless with them. Are you capable of taking on this duty?’

Havrick’s face was shining now. ‘I am, your grace!’

‘Then bathe, get changed, and report back to me, War Captain Havrick.’

Gello watched Havrick hurry off and permitted himself a smile. This would be a fast-moving, potent force that should be able to take on five times its number in untrained peasants. If he could only find out where the Queen was going…He sent for the young officer who had reported the Queen’s escape, and tried to find out more. How had she escaped? Who was with her?

‘She exchanged clothes with a local whore, who was smuggled out by the ladies-in-waiting. The whore looked like the Queen, so we did not think twice about it, until we heard the church bells ringing. Then, when I questioned the Queen, it became obvious she was not royal.’

‘Lahra! It must have been her! Very clever,’ Gello spat. ‘What have you done with them?’

‘The whore’s in a cell. Do you want her killed, sir?’

Gello was shocked. ‘Are you insane, boy? Lahra’s booked to appear at my birthday party in three days’ time! Where am I going to find a replacement? No, give her a few silvers and send her on her way.’

‘And the ladies-in-waiting?’

‘Question them. If they refuse to answer, let them watch as some of your men rape one of them, then slit her throat, and see if the next one talks. Understand?’

‘But, your grace, one of them is the daughter of the Count of Sendric. Shouldn’t we let her go?’

Gello sniffed. ‘She shouldn’t have helped my cousin escape.’ He paused. No matter what I do, Sendric will never be a friend of mine. I will have to have him killed at some point, so we might as well make it now, he thought. ‘See that she is the first one dragged out of the cell,’ he ordered.

‘Yes, your grace.’

Gello watched him go and reflected he needed to issue an order regarding how he was to be addressed. Normally his officers just called him ‘sir’, but since taking over the throne room, he had seen them fall back to his Ducal title. But that was not enough. Besides, ‘your grace’ sounded too much like a bishop. No, from now on, he would be addressed as ‘sire’ or they would receive a flogging. He had just sent orders out to that effect, as well as an order for the garrison commander at Sendric to arrest the Count, when his war captains arrived.

Gello waited until all had a drink before outlining what had happened.

Instantly he felt the tension in the room increase. The faces did not give much away but he knew what they were thinking. These men had been part of his inner circle for more than a decade now. They had been promised much: gold, women, land and, not least of all, command of armies. Every one of them was guilty of treason by supporting Gello. None had seen the Dragon Sword in action but all had been raised on its legends.

‘We have prepared for this eventuality,’ he told them. ‘If she is to raise an army, then let it be peasants and townsfolk, armed with pitchforks and cudgels, that we can sweep away in a single charge.’

He looked around and saw the confidence returning.

‘Gentlemen, this is not a saga. Peasants cannot defeat heavy cavalry. We will crush all those who rise against me. Now, any questions?’

‘Your—sire.’ A scarred veteran by the name of Grissum spoke up at once. ‘My regiment will be almost useless for battle. I doubt if a hundred and fifty of them have made the loyalty pledge.’

Gello nodded. Grissum was in charge of the archers, one of the regiments traditionally loyal to the crown. Perhaps because it was filled with peasant scum, commoners who he refused to admit to his cavalry regiments.

‘Sire, my regiment is even worse. I doubt if I could muster a whole company of pledgers,’ a plump captain, another favourite of Gello’s called Beq, piped up.

‘That is a sacrifice we shall have to make. The archers and rangers will be useful when we take on the Tetrans and Berellians, so we shall not discard them. But we cannot risk them joining the Queen. They will be confined to barracks and watched closely. Any caught trying to run will have their hands chopped off.’

His senior captain, a thin, bearded man who had first taught Gello how to fight a war, coughed.

‘What is it, Feld?’ Gello asked immediately.

‘Sire, those regiments are the best ones to pursue the Queen through broken country. She would be mad to set up in a town, for we have garrisons at all of them. She’ll make a base in a forest or in some hills. Perfect country for rangers but not for my heavy cavalry.’

‘My lights can do the job just as well,’ disagreed that captain, a muscular man with long red hair.

‘Indeed! This is why I have promoted a junior officer to the rank of war captain.’

There was a rumble around the table at this, as all looked and wondered who would be replaced. Beq and Grissum looked the most concerned.

Gello paused, enjoying the effect it had on them. ‘We shall need more war captains as we expand the army. But this will be a temporary position. If the man does well, then he will command the first of our new regiments. He is one of yours, Livett. A man called Havrick.’

All eyes swivelled to the captain of the light cavalry, who looked shocked. ‘Havrick? But, sire, I have other, much better officers than he…’

Gello shrugged. ‘They do not have his unique quality—he knows who the Queen’s Champion is, and will stop at nothing to destroy him.’

Livett sank back in his chair.

‘I have given him two of Feld’s companies, and three of Livett’s. He also has the authority to assume command of local garrisons. His job is to find the rebels and smash them before they grow too large. If he succeeds, he will join us around this table. If he fails, his body will rot in an unmarked grave somewhere.’

They nodded agreement.

‘Victory, that elusive mistress, has slipped away from us. But plans never survive the first contact with the enemy. We have reorganised ourselves and we will win, because we have the men, the weapons, the training and the desire. Now, go and secure your regiments.’ He gave them a smile as they left, knowing he had to show confidence. He watched them go then went back to his maps. He had found if he thought about hurting others, he didn’t have to think about his own hurt.

Martil had hoped to impress the Queen with his cooking skills but was horribly aware the stew would probably be considered of poor quality by the palace dogs. Still, both Karia and Barrett had wolfed it down. He had to spend some time with Karia, as well. She was sulking after he had snapped at her and was visibly upset when he asked her to do something. Usually after a fight, his mind cleared and he could think things through and act reasonably, no matter how angry he had been before. For some reason, after using the Sword, that had not happened straightaway. Now, of course, he could see how he had upset her, but it took some apricots in honey, an apology and a particularly gooey saga about a singing princess who looked after seven elves in a forest before she was mollified.

By then, the Queen wanted what she called a council of war, although as it included both Conal and Karia, Martil could hardly compare it with some of the true councils of war he had attended. Karia sat on his lap and finished off the apricots while they talked.

‘The plan is simple. We must catch Gello off guard. Sendric is a market town, but, being so far north, has a small castle and an impressive wall to protect against goblin raids. Even better, the Count of Sendric is an old friend, as well as a bitter opponent of Gello. We can use his town as our base, while the Dragon Sword brings in men from across the country. Once we have enough, we shall march back to the capital, gathering men along the way, and then either depose or destroy Gello,’ she declared.

Martil gulped. That was exactly the plan he had hoped would never be mentioned. Apart from his fears the Dragon Sword’s magic would not work for him, he had a fairly clear idea of what might happen if he took on Gello’s army with a few thousand poorly-armed farmers.

‘Your majesty, what will Gello be doing in the meanwhile?’ he asked carefully.

‘What do you mean?’

‘To bring enough men together will take weeks, possibly months. Your people have been at peace so long, it may take a long time to persuade enough men to join us. We would not want to leave without at least 20,000 men, and only then if we are confident we can collect that number again on the march to the city. Gello has 10,000 trained troops, including heavy cavalry. Unless we have a massive numerical advantage, we shall be slaughtered. And then we must manufacture enough weapons and armour for them. Even if we had a hundred blacksmiths working night and day, it would take months to give them just swords and shields. Then there is the issue of feeding such a host. Without good food, the men will not have the energy to fight or train. And we must have supplies enough to take with us, in case Gello invites us to besiege him. Getting an army together takes more than just waving around a sword and asking people to join you. Without arms, armour and food, we have nothing. While we are trying to do all that, what is Gello going to do? He’s not going to sit in your palace, waiting for us to attack. He’s going to be up here with every man he has got, aiming to smash us before we can gather our strength. I’m sorry, your majesty, but it cannot be done so easily.’

Martil saw her face crease in disappointment as she absorbed the logic of his argument. Then she rallied herself.

‘What do you suggest then, Captain?’

‘We must start training a small company. Once they are ready, they go into hiding and we move on to another town to do the same thing again. Then, when we rise up, it will be in so many places that Gello will be unable to concentrate his men. Meanwhile, we must not give Gello the chance to bring us to battle.’

‘And how long will all that take?’ Barrett asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Martil admitted, ‘but it will work. It did for us in the Ralloran Wars. Trying to raise a massive army and then take on Gello too soon will just result in slaughter.’

‘But what if the Sword can persuade Gello’s men to fight for us?’ Barrett countered.

The Queen held up a hand. ‘I can tell you now, not enough will come over just by raising the Sword. Just seeing Gello’s men in action around the palace and in the capital tells me he has been choosing men who believe in his dreams of conquest and blood. And I learned he is also making his soldiers sign on their honour to obey him. Most will not break those oaths, no matter how strong the call of the Sword. Captain Martil is right.’

Barrett looked furious, but she placed a hand on his arm.

‘Listen to me. My counsellors—the ones I inherited from my father—were all nobles. Chief among them, as commander of the army, was Duke Gello. They all left my service for Gello’s, one by one, as he wooed them over, or left the city, like Count Sendric, because they feared for their lives if they stayed. You are my new counsellors. I ask you to give me the benefit of your experience, and do not fear my reaction.’

She looked around the table. ‘That goes for you as well, bandit. I would appreciate your opinion.’

Conal cleared his throat. ‘Well, Martil’s plan seems sensible. We have to operate in secret, work from the shadows, so he does not know what our true strength is. Bandits ambush, surprise and drift away when threatened. That works, otherwise I would not be here to tell you about it.’

The Queen smiled. ‘Reluctant as I am to endorse a bandit’s viewpoint, it makes sense. Tomorrow we go to see Count Sendric. He can supply us with men, weapons, food and money. Now, though, I want to find out how Martil came to get the Sword and find Barrett.’

So Martil told how he had come north after leaving the Ralloran army, glossing over the bit about ordering the destruction of Bellic and the nightmares it had given him. Talking about Karia seemed far easier, as he explained about Father Nott telling them to go towards Tetril.

The Queen smiled at that. ‘You must admit, it does seem fortuitous. You find Karia and take her to her uncle, who just happens to have been killed while regaining the Dragon Sword. The priest must have seen something.’

Martil grudgingly agreed. ‘I’d also like to talk to him about that.’

‘It is intriguing. He entrusts his granddaughter to a warrior with a reputation such as yours—he must have seen something in you…’

Martil felt his heart jump a little when she said she was intrigued by him, and caught sight of Barrett staring at him coldly. The wizard obviously did not enjoy hearing that compliment, Martil thought smugly. So he finished the tale of how he had met Barrett and came to rescue the Queen. Then it was Conal’s turn. The Queen was particularly interested in hearing about how he had decided to join Martil.

‘How did you feel?’ she asked.

Conal thought about that one. ‘Your majesty, I would be delighted to tell you I felt a golden glow and the desire to do good and care for small animals but there was nothing like that. My old life came to an end with Danir’s death and I was looking for a new direction anyway. Although, admittedly, I do want a royal pardon and maybe the chance to be what I once was, a militia sergeant.’

‘Zorva’s balls! You were a militia shit-slinger?’ Karia gasped.

The Queen was about to snap at her when Martil signalled furiously behind Karia’s back. ‘It’s a long story,’ was all he said aloud, ‘but I think perhaps we should be careful what we say around Karia. That is my fault.’

‘I was once in the militia, princess,’ Conal admitted. ‘Can you forgive me for that?’

Karia thought about it for a moment. ‘They can’t be all bad then,’ she agreed.

‘What do you think, Barrett?’ the Queen asked. ‘About the bandit, not about the girl’s strange obsession with the militia.’

‘Could go either way, your majesty. The Sword may have worked on him and he did not realise it. Or it could have been a whim of his and he does not count because he is a bandit.’

‘I have done some dark deeds, your majesty,’ Conal admitted.

Merren rubbed her eyes. Being called ‘your majesty’ when they were sitting around a rough wooden table in a hut in the woods seemed ridiculous. The title seemed almost obscene, given all that had happened.

‘I think we can forget about my title when it is just we few,’ she suggested. ‘You may use my name.’

There was a short silence at this.

‘What do you know about the Sword—Merren,’ Martil said, eager to test out how her name sounded. ‘How do you know if it is working for you?’

‘I could not say, I am afraid. My father rarely spoke of it to me, probably thinking that as I could never draw it, I would never need to know. Just as he insisted I would never need to know anything about warfare, as my cousin Gello would be looking after the army,’ she finished bitterly. ‘Barrett, did you find anything in your library?’

Barrett nodded. ‘We did find a book about the Dragon Sword, which claimed that you could tell when its magic was working from the dragon on the hilt.’

‘Then let us see it,’ Merren requested.

Feeling slightly foolish, Martil produced the Sword and they all peered at the dragon carving.

‘I can’t tell anything,’ Karia declared.

Merren sighed. ‘We shall have to keep watching it, to see if there is any change. After all, it is one of the most pure forms of magic.’

‘Can I try it?’ Karia asked immediately, perking up at the thought of magic. Martil had explained they wanted to talk but to her it all sounded very boring. Battles and sieges—yawn! She wanted to hear about elves and dragons. Or at least some dolls.

‘I don’t think so,’ Martil smiled.

Merren looked at Karia quizzically. ‘Do you want to try magic?’

‘I think she may very well be able to do magic,’ Barrett interrupted. ‘In fact, we can try a quick test now, if you like.’

‘Yes, please!’ Karia said excitedly. This was more like it!

‘Is that wise?’ Martil asked him pointedly. ‘Is it safe for her?’

‘Of course. I will be here,’ Barrett smiled. If this warrior could impress Merren by feeding apricots to a small child, then he would impress her even more by showing off his magic. He told himself this was merely an opportune time to test her; that impressing Merren and putting the arrogant warrior in his place was a much less important priority. ‘It will not take much energy.’

At the front of the cabin was a wide railed veranda, with carved wooden benches that ran its full length. It was obviously a pleasant place to sit and watch the sunset. On the other side of the veranda was a garden bed, free of weeds, with a handful of seedlings trying to grow. Martil had been surprised to see a fresh crop this late in the year but obviously a Norstaline winter was further away—and probably milder—than the Ralloran equivalent. Barrett had Martil, Merren and Conal sit down on the bench, then sat down on the veranda steps with Karia, close to the garden bed.

‘Who does the planting?’ Conal wanted to know.

‘The family tasked to look after the lodge. I would say they are using this land to grow some food on the side, food not subject to the local taxes,’ Barrett shrugged. ‘Now if we are finished with the foolish questions, perhaps I can begin?’ On receiving silence, he smiled, then indicated Karia should reach down to the ground.

‘Dig your fingers into the soil,’ he invited her.

‘I love getting muddy,’ Karia smiled, and wiggled her fingers into the rich earth.

Barrett copied her and then closed his eyes. ‘You need to shut your eyes, then feel the magic within the soil. It has plenty of manure and plenty of fallen leaves raked through it, so it should be full of earth magic, waiting for things to grow.’

Karia shut her eyes then squeezed and squished the dirt between her fingers. It was the strangest feeling. The closest thing she could come up with was when she had stroked a pregnant cat and felt the tiny kittens stirring within their mother’s belly. It was something like that, but completely different as well. ‘I can feel it!’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘There’s something there!’

‘Can you feel the roots of the nearby trees, feel the insects marching above and the worms underneath?’

‘I can!’ She laughed delightedly, as she felt those things brush against her mind, like the faintest touch of a feather.

Martil stood up and leaned over the rail, trying to see what was going on.

‘Then call to the worms. Ask them to come up and see you.’

‘Here, wormies! Come here, wormy, squirmy wormies!’ Karia almost sang, and Martil had to struggle to keep a straight face.

Barrett merely cleared his throat. ‘You don’t have to say the words, worms can’t actually understand you. What you need to do is use your mind to…’ his voice trailed off as dozens of worms squeezed their way to the surface and began wriggling towards her.

‘I can feel them tickling my fingers,’ Karia giggled.

Barrett looked at Martil for a moment, then regained his concentration. ‘Excellent work. Now tell them to go back home.’

‘Bye-bye, wormies!’

Instantly the worms burrowed back into the soil and within a few heartbeats, were gone.

‘That was fun!’ Karia laughed. ‘Can we do it again?’

Martil was not sure what to think about this development. ‘Is it wise to keep going with her? I thought magic was dangerous, and she’s still so small,’ he said quietly.

Barrett shook his head. ‘This is the safest way for her to explore her powers. What would be far more dangerous is for her to use them by herself, without guidance. That could lead to problems. I would not try this if she did not have the ability. And she does. This was one of the first tests I was set. Summoning basic creatures is a relatively easy task. And she would have brought at least as many to the surface as I achieved.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘She’s going to be as powerful as I am.’ Barrett struggled with himself for a second, then sighed. Much as he wanted to look impressive, magic was far more important. ‘Perhaps more so.’

‘More so?’

Barrett shrugged. ‘It comes down to dedication. I had it. If she does not have it, then she will not be able to develop her talent. But I tell you, this girl has some special powers.’

‘Are you talking about me?’ Karia demanded.

‘Special powers and big ears,’ Martil muttered. ‘Are you tired?’ he asked Karia, remembering how Barrett became after performing magic.

‘No!’

‘The young are able to recover quickly. They have boundless energy,’ Barrett agreed. ‘We can try something else, but perhaps this time you should not say the words aloud. Or if you do, use their normal names. Magicians do have a certain image to uphold. People won’t pay you lots of money if you go around saying things like “come here, squirmy wormies”.’

Karia thought that was hilarious.

‘Let’s try something with plants this time. We’ll need a volunteer. Conal, how about you?’

‘Perhaps I should have told the tale of how Danir’s band used to call me Conal the Cowardly,’ the old bandit grunted, but obediently stood in the middle of the garden bed, as instructed.

‘Now, Karia, reach out to the seedlings at his feet. Feel them growing. Feel the magic pulsing through them. Can you do that?’

Karia, her eyes closed, merely nodded.

‘Good. Now make them grow! See them as tall plants, as tall as Conal.’

Karia muttered: ‘Grow!’ and they were astonished to watch the tiny seedlings, barely above the ground, shoot up, until they were the size of small trees in a few heartbeats.

‘Excellent! Now see them growing around Conal,’ Barrett encouraged her.

‘Hey! Nobody mentioned this!’ Conal protested, but it was too late. The plants leaned over and wrapped themselves around his legs and body, so he was unable to move or escape.

‘Try and get free,’ Barrett urged him.

Conal struggled and thrashed but the plants held him firm.

‘Zorva’s b—!’ he started to exclaim, then caught himself in time. ‘Zorva’s stinky feet!’

Barrett stared at the old bandit, then decided it was probably best to move on. ‘Excellent work, Karia! Now, let them go back to being seedlings. See them as they were.’

Conal, who was still thrashing around, fell over as the thick plants that had been around him shrank back into seedlings in an instant.

‘That should not have taken much effort, as we replaced the magic by making the seedlings back into seedlings again,’ Barrett explained.

‘Didn’t take much effort? I’m exhausted!’ Conal protested, as he walked back to the veranda.

‘Did you see what I did?’ Karia bounced up and down. ‘Are you proud of me?’

Martil, who still felt he had to make up for his behaviour earlier, jumped in. ‘Of course I am!’ he smiled.

‘Do you think you are up to one more test? This one should be an easy one, but it will see if you have the same mastery over animals.’

‘Yes, please! I love animals!’

Martil smiled at her excitement; her enthusiasm was infectious. Barrett waited until she had calmed down a little and then spoke softly, standing close to her. Martil could not help but feel that the wizard was putting on a show, as well. ‘Close your eyes and feel the magic within the forest. Float into it and find an animal nearby.’

She closed her eyes obediently and breathed deeply. For a long moment nothing happened, then she pointed out to her left.

‘There’s a rabbit there,’ she declared. ‘Here bunny, bunny, bunny!’

Barrett almost cringed at her words, then smiled as a small grey rabbit bounded out of the trees and raced up to her, stretching up on its hind legs to sniff and touch her fingers.

‘He’s so cute!’ she exclaimed, stroking him gently.

‘Can he tell you anything?’ Barrett asked softly.

She patted the rabbit for a moment. ‘He lives nearby and comes here to raid the gardens for food,’ she declared. ‘And he’s nervous of Conal.’

Everyone looked to where the old bandit stood, watching the scene.

‘I was thinking about rabbit stew,’ he admitted. ‘Bit tired of that smoked meat and oats mush that Martil likes to cook. Your rabbit looks mighty tasty. Could you tell him to hop into the stewpot?’

What happened next was almost too fast for Martil to comprehend. He was looking at Conal, who was smiling at the horrified expression on Karia’s face. Martil knew how Karia had seen many of the animals she had befriended killed for meat by her father, and how that had upset her. He turned to say something, when Karia closed her eyes again.

‘Karia! No!’ Barrett yelled urgently, his voice holding a note of real fear.

Martil jumped to his feet instinctively, then checked at the sight of the rabbit. It had been sitting, allowing itself to be patted by Karia, then in a matter of heartbeats it grew and grew, expanding to the size of a small horse. Its eyes reddened and moved forward to the front of its head, its ears shrinking slightly. It opened its mouth to reveal an impressive set of sharp teeth, then reared up onto its powerful hind legs, towering over Karia. But it ignored her. Its attention was on Conal and it raised its front paws to strike, glittering sharp claws at the ready.

Conal yelled and stumbled backwards, while Martil went for the Dragon Sword. But Barrett was quicker. He thrust out a hand, and the strange creature shrank back again, going from vicious predator to gentle herbivore in the blink of an eye.

The rabbit sat there, as if unable to believe what had happened, then bounded off, white tail flashing.

Nobody said anything, they just stared at Karia.

‘That was a nice rabbit. He was my friend. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him,’ she declared.

‘I’m never going to eat rabbit stew ever again. In fact, I might only eat oatmeal for the rest of my life,’ a stunned Conal said, sitting on the ground.

‘I’m very tired now,’ Karia yawned. ‘Martil, can you read me a story?’

Martil stepped forward, his hands trembling with the reaction of what he had seen. ‘Of course,’ he said, forcing his voice to be calm. ‘What would you like to hear?’

‘Pick me up,’ she requested, and he lifted her into his arms. She snuggled into his shoulder and yawned again. ‘I think I’d…’ her voice trailed off and he looked down to see her eyes were closed, her breathing soft and regular.

‘Do you want to tell me what in the name of Zorva’s hairy arse happened then?’ Martil hissed furiously.

‘It’s all right. You can yell at me as much as you want. She is sound asleep and will probably remain so until the morning, before waking ravenously hungry,’ Barrett said casually.

‘I thought you said that was safe? I thought you said you would look after her?’

‘And I did. You notice I returned the animal to its original state? Do not question me on matters you know nothing about!’ Barrett snarled. It had been as much of a surprise to him as to everyone else but he wasn’t about to admit that in front of Merren.

‘Barrett, what happened there? Can you explain?’ the Queen said quickly.

Barrett gestured towards Conal. ‘The bandit here thought he would make a joke. But as he has now learned, it is not wise to anger a wizard.’ At this point he glanced up at Martil, who glowered back at him. ‘She felt her new friend was threatened so she took steps to ensure he would be safe from Conal.’

‘But what did she do?’

Barrett wiped his brow. ‘It is difficult to describe for those unfamiliar with magic. You understand everything is growing, all the time? Well, at the same time many things are changing. Once, men and the creatures we cruelly describe as goblins had the same ancestor. We developed one way, the goblins stayed the same. They no longer look exactly like us, but they are similar in many respects. Other creatures die out, or alter their state. You have seen birds that cannot fly any more. What Karia did was take that process, apply it to an animal that does not need to change, and then compress what should take thousands of years into a few heartbeats.’

‘I was following you for a while, then you lost me,’ Conal admitted. ‘But can she do it again? Who needs an army of men when you can have an army of six foot-tall fanged rabbits?’

Barrett shook his head. ‘She should not have done it. There was no way that creature could have been allowed to live like that. It was an affront to nature and to magic. If we tried to do something like that, we could expect the dragons to intervene to destroy them—and probably us.’

Martil had heard enough. ‘I don’t want her doing any more magic, it’s too dangerous,’ he declared.

For the first time, Barrett looked alarmed. ‘She has to have training! We have opened this door and there is no turning back. Imagine if she was to walk around doing things like that at every turn! She must learn discipline, how to focus her powers, and how to test the extent of them.’

Martil reluctantly saw the logic of this. ‘All right. But Conal stays well away when it’s going on.’

‘That’s fine with me,’ the old bandit agreed. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I need to visit the privy.’

‘Is she truly as powerful as you?’ Merren asked softly.

Barrett smiled. ‘You saw what she did. To apply magic in such a way—she must be trained urgently. Her powers are great but her imagination is greater still. That is the true source of magic.’

‘Well, I’ll go and put her to bed now.’ Martil’s shoulder was beginning to ache from holding her.

‘I think I’ll rest, as well, while we have the chance,’ Barrett agreed.

Conal was still in the privy when Martil returned from putting Karia into bed, so he joined Merren out on the veranda.

‘We need to get to Sendric early tomorrow. Once we have seen the Count, there will be many things to do. All under the noses of Gello’s garrison,’ she said.

Martil nodded. But he wanted to talk to her more now they were alone.

‘What will happen once we beat Gello?’

Merren smiled. ‘I like your thinking. Jump straight ahead to the victory celebrations.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Well, you and Karia can come and live at the palace. From what I just saw, I suspect she might well become the next Queen’s Magician. You, of course, will be the Queen’s Champion, until such time as you die or my children take up the Dragon Sword.’

‘Your children?’ Martil wondered where she was going with that.

‘Well, having a commoner for a Champion gives me the best of both worlds. I have a Champion who can wield the Sword, and at the same time I am free to make a political marriage. I can play the nobles off against each other, bringing them over to my side with the lure of being the Prince Consort, and possibly the father of the next King.’

Martil felt a surge of anger at the thought, and had to force his face to remain impassive.

‘You know, it’s a real blessing that you have Karia. When you move into the palace, there will be far fewer rumours. I’m sure you’ve heard or read the sagas, where the Queen and her Champion end up together. Naturally most of the men in this country will assume that I, a weak woman, cannot rule without a strong man at my side. That I will inevitably fall into your arms. Men can be so stupid.’

Martil forced a short laugh. ‘Indeed,’ he added.

‘Finding a Prince Consort may be a difficult task. Hopefully at the end of this, we might have a clearer picture of the ones I might be prepared to marry for the good of the country.’

Martil just nodded, secretly thinking that few nobles would survive this coming war if he had anything to do with it.

13

Karia woke the next morning showing not the slightest effect of her magic-use the previous day—apart from a hunger that, even for her, was unusually large. In contrast to Karia, the wizard looked tired and drawn.

‘I hope I don’t have to perform much magic today,’ he admitted.

‘Couldn’t we just go out and try some more?’ Karia wanted to know.

‘No time. We have to leave soon.’ Merren stepped out of her bedroom dressed and ready to go. She wore the same tunic and trousers, ready for riding, but there was something about her, a purpose, and an intent, that seemed to set her glowing.

‘Today is the day when it all starts, the battle to win back my kingdom,’ she announced.

Martil looked at her and knew he wanted to be with her. It was insane but he could not help it.

‘What was that?’ Karia asked, looking around suddenly from where she was eating at the table.

‘Sorry about that. Oatmeal always does it to me,’ Conal, sitting on the opposite side, apologised.

But Barrett had felt it as well, and he knew just what it was. Time to stop things now, he decided. This arrogant Ralloran needed the facts of royal life explained to him. He must learn to yearn after Merren in secret, just as Barrett had been doing for years. After all, being an ignorant Ralloran, he might do something foolish, like act on his feelings.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ he declared loudly. ‘It was just a surge in the magic. Martil, do you want to give me a hand with the horses?’ He stared hard at Martil.

Martil had no idea what the wizard was going on about, but he obviously wanted to talk in private, so he followed him out to the stables. He caught up with the long-striding wizard by the stable door, and Barrett spun to face him.

‘It can’t happen, you know,’ he declared, intent on laying down the law. Once they had had this little talk, Martil had to know he was here to perform a task and nothing more.

‘What?’ Martil was mystified.

‘You and the Queen. Put it out of your mind.’ Martil’s apparent innocence just annoyed Barrett. He had never liked warriors anyway. They always seemed to get the girl, even when it was obvious their brains were all in their swords. How many times had he seen it, a woman he liked ignore his brilliant mind and go off with a muscle-bound moron? Well, he wasn’t going to see it happen again.

‘What do you…? How do you…?’ Martil spluttered, at once furious and confused.

‘Don’t play the innocent with me. When she walked out, your feelings for her were obvious. So obvious that they caused a disruption in the magic so large that even Karia felt it.’

‘How does…?’

‘Love is a powerful emotion. One that leads to magic, is perhaps even created by magic. Whatever the reason, it can be felt by those with the power. And we certainly felt it this morning. So I thought I would give you fair warning. The Queen is not for you. Better for you to know now, than be hurt later.’

Martil’s anger blazed into life and it was all he could do not to punch this arrogant wizard. ‘You’re only saying that because you want her for yourself.’

Barrett stopped in mid-flow, as if he had been slapped. How had this thick-headed warrior seen that? He was horribly aware that his silence was condemning him. ‘You’re mad,’ Barrett sneered at last.

‘You’re the one that knew Lahra. What do you ask her to do for you? Does she pretend to be the Queen for you? You can’t stand there and tell me you feel nothing for her. It’s been like a competition between us, ever since we rescued her.’ Martil could see his words hitting home. Bloody wizards. Always thought they were better than everyone else.

Barrett felt himself losing control. He had not been challenged in years. ‘This is not a game. Yes, I feel affection for the Queen. But I’m not the one walking around after her with his tongue hanging out, looking like a lovesick puppy.’

‘I don’t notice her complaining. Perhaps your real concern is you’ve been with her for the past few years and she hasn’t even looked twice at you. But I intrigue her,’ Martil spat back.

‘Because she doesn’t understand how a murdering bastard like you could possibly end up with the Dragon Sword!’

Martil stepped closer to him. ‘Well, I did get the Dragon Sword. Which must make me a better man than you!’

Barrett snarled in fury and Martil tensed, ready to go for the Sword if the wizard so much as twitched his hands.

‘Do you need a hand with the horses?’ Conal said suddenly.

They both turned as the old bandit stepped between them. Only he no longer looked like an old bandit, more like a militia sergeant come to break up a fight.

‘Sorry to interrupt what was looking like an interesting discussion, but by Zorva’s hairy arse, I don’t think you want the Queen to hear it—and I don’t think she’d want the two men who might just be able to give her back her kingdom to kill each other.’

Martil moved back, while Barrett relaxed his grip on his staff.

‘Now, I didn’t hear all of that but I think I heard enough. And while I wouldn’t dream of offering you two advice on magic or warfare, I think I know a little bit more about the ladies than you do. And the simple fact is, Merren is a queen. She’s going to do what she wants to do. She might want one, or both, or neither of you. It’s out of your hands. She’s not a prize that can be won. So are we done, or do I have to pretend I could box your ears?’

They looked at each other, then back to the bandit, then both nodded.

‘Then I suggest Barrett leaves and I give a hand to Martil with the horses.’

Martil watched Barrett walk away with something close to hatred bubbling inside. He had done nothing more than daydream a little about the Queen. And Barrett had acted as if he had asked for her hand in marriage, then offered her a hovel to live in, with a rotting pig for her dowry. He had not felt like this about a woman for many years, and now he had been made to feel dirty about it.

‘Captain, I don’t want to take sides, but I have to say—don’t pin your hopes and heart on the Queen. She’s going to do what’s best for the country and her. She won’t care what that means to you,’ Conal said softly.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Martil said shortly.

Conal held up his hand and walked off to begin brushing the horses. He wished he possessed the words to reach Martil. The man might be a demon in battle but he was defenceless against Merren. Love could be such a bastard, he knew.

Meanwhile Martil brushed and saddled horses in silence, hoping the garrison would try to arrest him today. He felt as if he needed to take his anger out in battle. He imagined the guards at the gate stopping them, and then what he could do to them with the Dragon Sword. And what a shame it would be if something happened to Barrett during the battle.

Those thoughts kept him going on the walk to Sendric. He was the only one actually walking, as Karia and Merren rode Tomon, Barrett was on his own horse and Conal had Noxie, his donkey. He found each time he looked up at Barrett sitting comfortably in the saddle his anger would rise. He had thought about getting Karia to ride with Barrett and having the Queen ride behind him on Tomon. After all, Tomon was a far bigger horse than Barrett’s steed. But after this morning, he knew Barrett would try to turn it into an argument.

‘We should try to avoid trouble. Fight only as a last resort,’ Merren said as they came over the brow of a hill to see Sendric in the distance. ‘The guards will not expect us to be here, and will not be looking out for us.’

‘And don’t use magic unless I tell you, Karia,’ Barrett added.

‘Aye. If she turns them all into killer rabbits, we’ll be in even more trouble,’ Conal joked.

‘Or I could turn them into wormies,’ Karia laughed.

‘It’s serious! You could hurt yourself! No magic!’ Martil barked, earning a hurt look from Karia. He looked away, unable to face her.

That only put the edge on his anger. Part of him tried to remind himself that he and Merren came from different worlds, and all he really wanted was a home by the sea, not to live in a palace, be dressed like a fool and have to talk to nobles all day. But that was not the point. Nobody could tell him what he was allowed to do.

By the time he reached the gate, he was careful to lead Tomon only with his left hand, so his right was close to the Sword.

The guards on the gate were tired and bored and the taller one’s perfunctory questioning of the small group was brief, made briefer by his own disquiet at the way the warrior was staring at him.

‘Who were they?’ his mate asked. ‘You let them inside so fast I thought they must be relatives of yours.’

‘No idea, but that warrior looked like he was ready to kill someone.’

‘Shouldn’t we have stopped them?’

‘The two of us? Are you mad? Send word to get a full squad to intercept them.’

The Queen quietly pointed out the directions to Martil, as they moved through the town. Because it had been built to withstand goblin attack, there was no direct road from the gate to the castle. Instead they were forced to make a series of turns down different streets. These were peaceful enough, a few carts rumbling around, a handful of people heading off to work, but no visible guards. Martil felt his frustration rise. He had been looking forward to hacking apart a patrol.

‘Nearly there,’ Merren said with relief, pointing to where a small castle dominated the skyline.

To Martil’s eyes it looked too small to be effective, but he knew it had been built to fight goblins, not men. Goblins did not use siege engines, and their usual method of attack was waves of warriors using home-made ropes to scale the walls.

Then a shout from behind made him turn, and he smiled as he realised whoever was in charge knew his business after all. A squad of soldiers had appeared from a side street and were now hurrying towards them.

‘Halt! In the name of the Duke!’

‘Perhaps we can outrun them,’ Conal said doubtfully.

‘And be chased into a trap? Give me Tomon and I’ll get rid of them.’ Martil wanted to both exercise his anger on the guards and impress the Queen.

Merren hesitated, saw the soldiers getting closer, remembered what Martil had done back at Barrett’s house to Gello’s soldiers, grabbed Karia and slid down.

‘You stay here and watch the Queen,’ Martil told Barrett, determined no-one else would share the glory.

Without waiting to see what Barrett’s answer was, he kicked Tomon into a charge, the big horse’s hooves striking sparks from the cobbles. He was dimly aware that Conal was trying to tie Noxie’s reins around the stump of his left arm and hold his sword at the same time but he ignored that, instead drawing the Dragon Sword. Normally he would have to have been mad to take on a full squad of men, but he had the Dragon Sword.

The soldiers skidded to a halt as they realised Martil was not intending to escape, but was attacking them. Their sergeant was young and obviously debating how to stop Martil. They were not carrying spears or shields, so he formed his squad into two lines, making the first line kneel down. They held out their swords, hoping Martil would not press home the charge and if he did, they could haul him down before he killed too many. But Martil had no intention of being dragged out of his saddle. He twitched the reins and Tomon swerved to the left. As he rode past, Martil slashed the Dragon Sword up; the kneeling soldier had his head split apart, while the man behind reeled back with his throat ripped open. Blood fountained over the men beside them as their sergeant tried to get the men to turn and form up again. But Martil was quicker and rode past the other end of the line while they were still milling around, still standing up. This time he merely held out the Dragon Sword at head height and the men in the end files lost their heads as he spurred past. The two heads flew high, landing on the cobbles with a clatter and a wet thump.

The rest of the shocked squad clung together for a second, drenched in the blood of their dead companions, then, as Martil turned for them one more time, they broke. They were trained men but the way he had slaughtered nearly half their number was unnerving.

It was the worst thing they could have done.

With the Dragon Sword, he just chopped down brutally, or held it low and speared through their backs. Three men were down and the fourth, the sergeant, turned to face him. The man was plainly terrified, and as Martil rode closer, threw down his sword and raised his hands. But Martil had already begun his stroke, which not only took off the sergeant’s head, but his arms as well. Martil ignored the mutilated corpse that collapsed behind him; he was looking at the last two men. They were running hard but he was mounted and he would have them in a few moments. Then a pigeon swooped at his head and he ducked, to see it followed by others. And not just pigeons. Starlings and sparrows swooped and screeched around his head. He instinctively turned Tomon and they sheered off.

‘Martil, the way is clear! Come on!’ Barrett bellowed, and Martil realised the wizard had sent the birds.

He trotted back, past the slaughtered soldiers, to where Merren was shielding Karia’s face from the gruesome sight. As always after a fight, his anger was gone, replaced instead by regret that he had killed so many. Regret that was spurred into guilt by the Queen.

‘I thank you for your prompt action, but did you have to chase them down like dogs?’ Merren said stiffly.

If Barrett had said those words, Martil would have been ready to attack him. But instead he felt the need to justify himself.

‘I had to. They would have brought back others had I let them run. As it is, they’ll go off and hide—and by then we’ll have the Count on our side,’ Martil argued.

Merren looked sceptical. ‘They would have killed or arrested us, so I cannot complain about being free. But I doubt the Dragon Sword will approve of too many more acts such as that.’

Martil looked down at the Sword. It was spotlessly clean, although his hands and arms were covered in blood and gore. Tomon was also spattered with blood, and worse, and Merren stepped away.

‘I think we’ll walk,’ she declared. ‘You should clean yourself up.’

Barrett rode after them, giving Martil a glare, while Conal wordlessly offered Martil an old tunic, which he used to clean the worst off his face and hands.

By the time Martil and Conal had caught up to Barrett, Karia and Merren, the wizard had put the two guards on the castle gates to sleep and was walking while Merren and Karia rode his horse.

‘A much cleaner way of doing things,’ the wizard said pointedly.

Martil was in no mood to argue with him. What he had told Merren had been true, up to a point. But the real reason he had chased the men was the exultation he felt in killing them. It was made worse by the Dragon Sword. Its power made you invincible. He ignored Barrett and instead hoped this slaughter did not mean the dreams would come back.

They rode through the open gates and into a long gate tunnel, lined with arrow slits and holes in the ceiling.

‘What are they for?’ Karia asked.

‘So the defenders can drop things on whoever is attacking them,’ Martil said automatically.

‘That’s not very nice!’

Martil, still plastered in the blood of the men he had killed, said nothing.

On the other side of the tunnel was a portcullis that appeared rusted into the top of the tunnel, then a large courtyard, enclosed by the castle wall. Stables took up one wall, storerooms another, and the keep the third. It was relatively quiet, barely a dozen people walking around, and it was a few moments before Merren could attract one over.

‘Yes?’ The servant, a tall, thin man with a large nose and receding hair, offered a short bow but did not offer them a title. He stared at the blood-spattered Martil.

‘Tell the Count an old playmate of his daughter is here to see him,’ Merren said carefully.

This time the servant offered a deep bow.

‘Yes, mistress. May I suggest leaving your horses and that other creature in the stables and perhaps cleaning yourselves up? I shall go and speak to the Count.’

‘The Count will know who I am as soon as he gets the message,’ Merren said confidently, watching the man hurry away towards the keep.

‘As long as he is not busy. It can only be a short time until the deaths of those soldiers are reported back to whoever is in command of the garrison here,’ Barrett said.

Martil ignored him.

The guest stables were almost empty, and a pair of bored stableboys were happy enough to take care of their horses, although Martil had to offer them a silver coin apiece to get them to clean off Tomon. He stepped behind some hay bales and changed out of his bloody clothes, using an old horse bucket to wash the rest of the blood off his face and hands.

‘Hurry, Martil, the servant’s coming back,’ Conal called.

Martil quickly pulled on a fresh tunic and joined the others as the servant almost sprinted into the stables.

‘I’d say the Count has told him to treat us as if I were the Queen,’ Merren said with a smile. ‘Now, Martil, don’t show the Dragon Sword until I tell you.’

Martil shrugged. He was suddenly nervous it would not respond to him. After all, he had just killed a man who was trying to surrender. Another memory I need to forget, he thought bitterly.

‘The Count…wishes you to join him…in his audience chamber.’ The servant skidded to a halt in front of them, performed a deep and respectful bow only slightly spoiled by his huffing and puffing, and then tried to hurry them towards the keep.

‘About time,’ Merren said coolly.

The sweating servant led them across the courtyard and into the keep. It was unlike most of the fortifications Martil had ever seen. For a start it was carpeted, while the arrow holes were covered with glass, and lanterns and paintings gave relief to the dull stone walls.

They could hear music, and laughter, drifting down from the stairs. Unlike most traditional castle stairs, these ones were wide and wooden, not narrow and stone.

‘I bet even the dungeons have nice warm rugs in here,’ Conal commented, staring at a huge tapestry on one wall.

‘A word of advice. Don’t try to make amusing remarks to the Count. He is a noble of the old school. I may be accepting of my unusual situation and thus tolerate your pert comments, but the Count will not. Understand?’

Conal offered a sketchy bow. ‘My apologies, your majesty. I shall be silent.’

Merren had no time to offer more advice, for the servant led them along a short passageway that ended in a pair of magnificent oaken doors, not guarded this time but served by two men in the Count’s sky-blue livery.

‘Here we are,’ the servant said simply.

At his bidding, the doors were opened and they walked into a large room. Its grey stone walls were almost completely covered in more colourful paintings and tapestries and it was lit by wide windows that allowed the sun to shine through. A large table and a score of chairs dominated the room but only one man was seated, and he rose as soon as they walked in.

‘Leave us,’ he ordered the servant, but did not look at them until the man had bowed and left, the doors shutting behind him.

Martil stared at the Count—for surely it had to be he—an older man with thinning grey hair and a close-cropped grey beard. He was dressed richly, although his tunic was straining a little at the waist, and his lined face showed the effects of stress and worry.

As soon as the doors shut the Count went down on one knee.

‘Your majesty! I hardly dared believe it! How did you escape?’

Merren stepped forward and extended her hand, raising the Count to his feet.

‘Sendric, we now have a wielder for the Dragon Sword. My escape is thanks to him and my magician Barrett. It is no thanks to you and the other nobles who left me defenceless in my own palace, unable to stop the machinations of Gello. But I bring you the opportunity to redeem yourself and wipe away the shame of deserting your Queen in a time of need.’

Martil winced at the expression on Sendric’s face.

‘Your majesty, I was tricked into leaving, Gello sent men to take over my town. Surely you can…’ Sendric began but she cut him off.

‘I would like to hear your reasons but I fear our time is short. We were forced to fight off some of Gello’s men and the garrison could be roused against us at any time.’

‘What? Gello has three companies of infantry here now, not the usual single company. I have only a score of personal guards and while many of the senior militia are loyal to me, I could not ask them to fight armed soldiers. The commander is a decent enough man, he’s left the running of the town to me, just ensures there’s no protests or rallies in the streets but if he knows you are here…’

Merren interrupted him once more. ‘My dear Sendric, as I told you, we have the Dragon Sword. Give us men, arms and money and we will raise the surrounding country, then the town against them and use Sendric as a base to take back my country.’

Sendric blanched at her statement.

‘Your majesty, what you propose has significant risks for both me and my family. And I must ask, where is my daughter?’

Merren waved his question away. ‘She stayed behind, acting as a decoy to allow me to escape. Now, I have a list of what we need…’

The count bowed his head.

‘The Duke, for all his faults, is not a foolish man. He knows the love I have for my daughter. Since my wife died, she…your majesty, he will use her against me if I help you. I know he will!’

Martil felt the first twinges of alarm. Here they were, deep in a castle, at the power of a man who was giving every indication he did not want to risk becoming involved in a rebellion.

‘I too fear for Rana’s safety,’ Merren agreed. ‘But I fear for our country far more so! Your daughter, my dearest friend, put this country above herself. Do not insult that gesture, Sendric. She knew what she was risking. We have the Dragon Sword. With it we can inspire the men of this town to rise with us. Three companies of Gello’s men, you say? Well, there would be 3,000 men in this town and the surrounding villages! Once they know we have the Dragon Sword, they will be eager to join!’

The count’s face showed the struggle within. He caught Martil’s eye and Martil knew what he was thinking. They might be able to raise a mob but what would they be armed with? Pitchforks and kitchen knives? Even 300 trained men would create a terrible slaughter among such opponents before being defeated. And there was no guarantee the mob would not be broken and sent running for their lives. Whatever happened, his town would pay a terrible price, and most likely, his daughter would pay the ultimate price for his actions.

‘Your majesty,’ Sendric began heavily. ‘The people are not ready to rise up. The arrival of so many soldiers has cowed them, not angered them. The time is not right…’

Again he was interrupted, this time by a warning horn, followed by a second, and then a third.

‘They have discovered the missing patrol,’ Conal spat.

The words seemed to help the Count to a decision.

‘Follow me. I shall help you escape from here. I take it you will be staying at the magician’s lodge a few miles away?’

‘How did you know of that?’ Barrett growled, before the Queen could wave him to silence.

‘Some of my huntsmen discovered it. Fear not, they have been sworn to secrecy. I shall send word to you there,’ he said.

‘But, my lord Count—does that mean you are refusing to help?’

‘My Queen, I cannot risk it. My daughter, my town, and the people I have lived with and protected for decades—I cannot see a bloody battle in these streets. But I will help you escape. Perhaps the Dragon Sword can bring men towards it in the hills.’

‘Men who need food, shelter and arms and armour,’ Martil snapped. ‘We have the Sword! I thought that meant everything to you Norstalines?’ He drew the Sword and held it up for the count’s inspection.

His eyes showed his distress, but Sendric just lowered his head. ‘I wish I could help. But I know the spirit of this town—and all I can see is my daughter in Duke Gello’s power. Her life dependent on his mercy. I am sorry. I can do no more.’

Merren stepped forwards, her eyes blazing.

‘Sendric, I am not asking. This is your Queen ordering you to do your duty!’

The Count bowed his head, his voice so low they could barely hear it. ‘But as you reminded me, you are not on the throne, your majesty. I cannot do what you ask.’ Rather than face her, he strode over to the wall and tugged on a golden bellpull. Almost instantly the same servant burst through the doors.

‘Gratt, these guests are to leave unseen, you understand? The side tunnel to the stables and then the lower tunnel out of the town,’ he instructed the man.

‘But, Sendric, I implore you…’ the Queen began.

Sendric said nothing, he merely sat down in a seat and refused to look at them.

The servant crossed over to a large, unlit candelabra fixed to the wall, and pulled on it. A loud click sounded and then he heaved on a huge painting of a dragon, which swung away from the wall like a door to reveal a hidden staircase.

‘Hurry, please!’ the servant urged, taking and lighting a lantern.

They looked to the Queen but Merren seemed numbed by Sendric’s refusal.

‘Let’s go,’ Martil said finally.

Still Merren did not move, and Karia had to grab her hand and almost drag her along to get her out of the audience chamber. Martil and the others followed behind. He cast a glance over his shoulder as the door grated shut and saw the Count slumped at the table, his face in his hands.

‘What do we do now?’ Conal asked.

Merren did not answer him, and after a pause, Barrett spoke up.

‘We go back to the lodge, and from there come up with a new plan. This is a setback, but we shall regather ourselves,’ the wizard stated, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself. He was barely visible in the gloom, then he moved his hand over the top of his staff and the next moment, there was a flame burning there, giving light but no smoke, yet not damaging the wood.

Karia exclaimed in delight and the servant’s eyes widened in shock, but the Queen just kept walking.

‘He should have helped us. And he refused even when he saw the Dragon Sword! Why did it not work on him? He is a good man,’ Merren muttered, almost to herself.

‘It may have been the, er, incident with the guards before we went in. The Dragon Sword can hardly have been impressed by the use with to it was put,’ Barrett said, with a glance at Martil.

‘So I should have let those guards just arrest us? Would that have been better?’ Martil’s temper flared up. ‘Why is it my fault?’

‘Well, you were the one who cut down an unarmed man,’ Barrett pointed out.

Martil was not prepared to acknowledge his guilt to the wizard. ‘If you think I’m so useless, why don’t you find another wielder for this Sword? Oh, that’s right, you couldn’t!’ he snarled, his voice echoing down the stairs.

Barrett stopped. ‘I did not find you. You found me. And anyway, the punishment for an unworthy wielder is worse than anything I might dream up. You will die horribly if you do not live up to the Sword,’ he shouted.

Karia cried in alarm and Martil stepped forward, opening his mouth to continue the argument, when the servant stepped in, hands raised.

‘This is a secret passageway, but will not remain so if you continue to shout at each other,’ he said sharply, then bowed when they glared at him.

‘Lead on,’ Martil said grumpily.

The stairs twisted and turned, then finished in a flagstone-paved passageway. It was surprisingly wide and high, and they could feel a slight breeze blowing in their faces. Even so, it smelt musty. The servant led them on, peering at the wall, before exclaiming with satisfaction and drawing up a pair of long bolts that were sunk into the floor near a darker patch of stone wall.

‘I’ll need a little help here,’ he said, putting his shoulder to the wall. Martil leaned in to help and together they forced it open, to allow a surge of light into the dim passageway.

‘These are the stables. Get in there and get your horses swiftly. The guards could be here at any moment,’ the servant instructed.

Martil eased his way inside, blinking at the light, even though the stables were not as bright as outside. Conal came with him, and together they grabbed the horses and their bags. The horns were still blowing, and luckily the noise had drawn the stableboys out into the courtyard. It was easy enough to lead the horses out of the stables; the stable side of the door was just a plain piece of stone wall that held a few old hooks and some cleaning implements. The floor was clean, so there would be no mysterious hoofprints that disappeared into a wall. Best of all, the stableboys had done a fine job in cleaning Tomon in a short time, Martil was pleased to see. Once safely back in the passage, Martil helped the servant pull on a large iron ring to haul the door shut, then force the bolts home.

‘They’ll never find it, and if they do, they’ll never be able to open it,’ he said with satisfaction.

‘How come this is here, anyway?’ Conal wanted to know.

‘It was built back in the days of goblin attack. They were not known for taking prisoners,’ the servant shrugged. ‘Only the Count’s family, his most trusted servants and guards know of its existence and are sworn to secrecy. Let us hurry.’

Once again they started walking, but the dark atmosphere had nothing to do with the dim passage. Karia thought this was quite an interesting adventure but was a bit nervous of the man leading them down here. She was also unsure around Martil. The Martil who hacked apart men and returned to her covered in blood was a different Martil from the one she liked.

Martil was still smarting from Barrett’s accusation, while the wizard had several worries. He had no liking for Martil and normally the thought of his life being leached away by the Dragon Sword would not worry him. But without the Sword, Gello was going to win. Barrett was also concerned about Merren. She had not taken Sendric’s refusal well and was not saying much. He had seen her in a rage before, seen her rip into nobles around the council chamber, but this was different. She should have handled Sendric much better than she had. He might have been willing to help them in secret if she had tried to persuade him, rather than order him. He had tried to suggest that to her before. Many of the nobles were proud men, with long histories of service to the crown. They reacted badly when she tried to force them to do things they did not want to do. However, it was hard to say anything to her at the best of times. And he certainly did not know what to say now.

Merren walked along numbly. How could Count Sendric not help? It would have been so perfect. Sendric was the biggest town in the north but, more than that, it dominated the northeast. Thanks to a happy accident of geography, you could block off three passes and seal off this part of Norstalos from the rest, giving you the town of Sendric, two smaller market towns and a score of villages—as well as almost every silver and gold mine in the country. If you were going to start a rebellion, this was the place. She knew she had to start thinking about another plan but she just did not have the energy now.

Conal could feel the tension, but it did not worry him. He had been in worse situations before. They walked on, although the passageway was wide enough for two horses to be ridden abreast.

‘Reinforcements could get in, as well as people get out if they needed to,’ Martil reflected, running his hand over the tunnel wall.

They walked on, each lost in their own thoughts, as the passage sloped downwards, taking them under the town. But walking in silence was not good enough for Karia, who soon wanted to know where they were going, why they were going there and what this place was.

Martil put her onto Tomon and found her a chunk of oatcake to eat, which left her quiet and him free to brood on what had gone wrong.

The breeze grew a little stronger, as the passageway started to rise.

‘You should be safe from here,’ Gratt said suddenly. ‘Just keep going and you will find yourself in a small wood a few miles from town. I must return. I am known as one of the Count’s principal servants, so if I am missed, things will be suspected.’

He handed the lantern to Conal and before they could do anything more than thank him for his help, he had run back the way he came.

‘Are we walking into a trap?’ Martil wondered.

‘If we are, they will be sorry,’ Barrett said grimly.

But while the passageway grew lighter, the breeze grew stronger and the slope grew steeper, there was no-one waiting for them as they emerged into a cave in the side of a small hill, which was itself well hidden, covered by a thick wood.

Barrett extinguished the small ball of flame at the head of his staff and then waved it to the trees. Almost at once, a pair of birds flew down to him and perched on his staff. After a few moments, they flew off again.

‘They’ll lead the way back to the lodge,’ he stated.

Merren still seemed dumbfounded by the way things had gone so wrong, so Barrett helped her onto Tomon and they started back.

‘Any more sympathetic nobles around here?’ Martil asked.

‘We shall have to see,’ Barrett shrugged. ‘We need a good meal first.’

It was a long walk back to the lodge, and even Karia’s chatter had died down by the time they reached it. As soon as they were inside, the Queen went into one of the bedrooms and shut the door.

‘We should leave her for a while. I think she was confident the Count would help us,’ Barrett said. ‘She has believed finding the Dragon Sword would be the end of her troubles.’

Martil opened his mouth to argue but was beaten by Karia.

‘I’m hungry,’ she announced.

‘We’ll get cooking,’ Martil agreed.

‘And then get thinking,’ Conal muttered.

It was an unpleasant atmosphere as they worked in the lodge.

Barrett kept Karia amused by showing her how he could make a spoon heat up, change its shape and then form back into a normal spoon once more. Nobody else felt like laughing.

‘We are short of fresh supplies,’ the old bandit reported. ‘If we’re going to be staying here for a while, as looks likely, then we really need to get some more.’

‘We’ll have to go and get something from a village nearby,’ Barrett agreed. ‘Conal, you had better make the purchases; I’ll come with you to show you the way. We had better leave now if we are to be back by dark. Martil, will you be all right guarding the Queen?’

‘I think I might manage,’ Martil replied, getting himself and Karia bowls of stew.

Barrett looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I think tomorrow we will look carefully at our plan of action,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could think of what some of our options could be? I am right in thinking you have faced some desperate situations in the Ralloran wars?’

‘Aye,’ Martil agreed, trying not to think too much about them.

Barrett waited a moment longer, but when it became apparent Martil would offer nothing more, he sighed. ‘Keep the door barred. I doubt anyone would stumble upon the lodge but you never know how the town’s garrison will react. We shall use a special knock,’ Barrett demonstrated a series of taps on the door, ‘to let you know it is us.’

Martil just stared at him. ‘Make sure you get some fresh fruit,’ was all he said.

Conal gave them a wave, and then he and Barrett were gone.

Martil felt himself relax as soon as the wizard left.

‘Where are they going?’ Karia asked.

‘Just to get some food. We’ll wait here, to look after the Queen,’ Martil replied.

‘I would have liked to go,’ Karia complained. ‘It’s boring here.’

Strangely, Martil felt calmer around Karia. ‘Too dangerous. And besides, you need to help look after the Queen,’ he said, almost automatically.

Karia looked towards the bedrooms. ‘Should we go and wake her up so I can look after her?’

‘No, let her sleep,’ Martil suggested hastily.

Just then, they heard Conal and Barrett ride off, and Merren must have heard that as well, because the bedroom door opened and she stepped out.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

‘Barrett and Conal have gone into the nearest village to get some fresh food,’ Martil explained.

The Queen relaxed. ‘I thought…I wondered where they were going…’

‘We would never leave you,’ Martil said quickly, understanding her concern.

Merren smiled weakly at him and then sat down at the table, her head in her hands. Gone were the power and the poise that Martil had seen since he had first met her, instead there sat a young woman who looked tired in both body and spirit.

He and Karia ate in silence for a minute, Martil wondering if he should offer Merren a bowl of the rather tasteless stew.

‘Why?’ Merren blurted suddenly.

‘What?’ both Martil and Karia said.

‘Why did the Count not help us? I do not understand it. It’s always so easy in the sagas! It makes me wonder if Gello and his cronies were right, and Aroaril does not want a woman on the throne of Norstalos.’

‘That cannot be true,’ Martil said instantly.

‘It’s just that, after going through so much over the past few years, of struggling and plotting, having to be twice as tough as any king would be, just to get half the respect, I never thought there would be problems once I had the Sword!’ She seemed to be almost talking to herself, but Martil felt as though her words were going straight to his heart. It was obvious the royal persona, which she used to keep everyone at a distance, was gone. This was the Merren she usually kept hidden.

‘And you know what the worst thing is? I never even said goodbye to my friends properly. I let them go into terrible danger without even giving them a hug. Why? Because I have spent so much time trying to be the sort of tough ruler the nobles want, I can’t be myself any more. And all the time, it didn’t matter. I could have done it my way and Gello still would have gone down this path.’ She rubbed her face tiredly. Karia slipped off her chair and crossed over to Merren. She did not really understand what Merren was saying but it was obvious the Queen was upset. So she gave her a hug.

Merren stroked Karia’s hair absently, then helped her onto her lap. ‘There are things I could have done better. If I get the chance again, it will be different. Although that chance looks rather small now. I have half a mind to just leave. Let the country fall apart, let Gello lead it on a path to war and destruction. Go and sit in Tetril, or even down in Rallora, as a normal person. I can do what I like, say what I like, and marry who I like. See what they think of that.’

Martil’s heart had lurched when she had mentioned marrying who she liked, but he recognised she was not truly serious about it, just trying to let out some of the feelings welling up inside her. He felt close to her then. ‘You won’t do that,’ he said softly.

‘No, I won’t,’ she agreed. ‘Because that’s what they want. They want me to run away, so they can say Norstalos should never have had a Queen. Well, I shall show them. I’ll be the best ruler this country has ever seen!’

Martil listened to her words, his food forgotten. He was transported back through the years, to the day when the army recruiter had come to the village. All had listened to the man, who had talked of how, once the brutal Berellians had been beaten back, the country would enter a golden age. The words had proved as false as the Berellians’ promise to keep the peace. He thought he would never listen to such a speech again. He had heard too many honeyed lies from kings and nobles in his time. But from her it was different. She had nothing to gain from this, she was just speaking her mind. He felt this was a pivotal moment. With the right words now, he could persuade her to abandon her plan to retake the country. But he found he did not want to do that. There was something about her that spoke to him. He could not crush her dreams. Instead he wanted to give her hope, even though it would put him even closer to the fighting. He had started this journey on a whim, now he would take his first deliberate step in a campaign not just to win her war but more importantly, to win her.

‘Merren, it was not your fault. But all is not lost. We can still start the way I suggested. It will just take that much longer without Sendric’s help,’ he said firmly.

‘How?’

‘After the battle of Meads, the Ralloran army was smashed. Oh, we made it into the mountains, a few thousand of us, but we could not face the Berellians and Avish in open battle any more. All that was left was to wipe us out and then divide up the country. Luckily for us, they decided to divide our country before they finished us off, and fell out over where the new boundaries would be drawn. Still we did not have the strength to take on even just the Berellians, so we split up and started raiding. We stung them, until the Berellians were just guarding the land they held. Then we started taking back villages and small towns. That is what we shall do.’

‘You think we can do that and win?’ Merren asked doubtfully.

‘If Rallorans could do it, without a rallying point like the Sword, then surely we can,’ he smiled.

‘I wish I could believe that,’ she sighed.

Martil took a deep breath. He had sworn never to do this but the course he had chosen demanded it. For a moment he wondered if he would be doing this if he was not attracted to her. But that was pointless; he was attracted to her and he was doing this. He stood and walked around the table, then drew the Dragon Sword and dropped to one knee by her side. He took her hand, and felt his heart pound a little faster. It took some effort to concentrate on her face. Her eyes seemed to look deep into him and he tried not to let any of his feelings show.

‘I am pledging my life on it. I shall see you returned to the throne or I shall die,’ he said simply. After all, that was what the wizard had insisted would happen, so it was not too much of a dramatic statement, he told himself.

She smiled at him and he felt his heart jump again.

‘You don’t want to die!’ Karia exclaimed, and broke the spell.

‘I have always preferred victory to death,’ Merren chuckled. ‘Is there any stew left? I’m starved.’

Martil forced a laugh and busied himself getting her some stew, trying not to think about the promise he had just made.

‘One thing though—how long did the Ralloran wars last?’

‘Well, it was nearly seventeen years,’ he said.

Merren looked troubled. ‘That is my one concern. I do not like leaving Gello in power for so long. And, if you cannot unlock the Dragon Sword’s hidden powers, you will not have so long. You will die before then. You must be a good man.’

‘He’s nice,’ Karia defended him. ‘I don’t want to see him die. Who’s going to make me toast or play dolls with me then?’

Martil looked at Merren, who had an amused smile on her face. ‘You play dolls? The fabled Captain Martil, a Butcher of Bellic, plays dolls?’

He shrugged. ‘Sometimes. And catch. When I can’t avoid it, I sing bedtime songs.’

Merren looked at him quizzically. ‘I can see the Dragon Sword’s problem. Which is the real wielder—is it the man who looks after a small girl who is not his own, who can calmly deal with requests for more food and more books, or the man who becomes so lost in battle that he kills unarmed men?’

‘Can we tell it which one to believe?’ Martil half-joked.

‘Perhaps we should not think about starting the rebellion yet. Perhaps we should live somewhere quietly until the Dragon Sword is convinced you are the rightful wielder, then come back.’

Martil felt the irresistible lure of that offer. To live somewhere quietly with this woman and this child, why, it was the sort of life he had dreamed of when he left Rallora for what he imagined were the peaceful northern lands. True, the ideal woman had not been a queen, and had probably been a little more generously endowed, in the mould of Rabbag rather than Merren. And the children he had imagined would be boys, tough youngsters he could teach how to ride and how to use a sword. But he looked over at them, sitting at the table, and somehow knew deep in his soul that these two were better than the dream.

‘It sounds good,’ he said wistfully.

Merren looked at him then, and he wondered if he had put a little too much of his feelings into his voice. He quickly covered it by offering to read Karia a book, and used her excitement to mask his own emotions.

But it was hard not to relax, sitting there in the quiet cabin; a little girl on his lap, listening to him read a book, a beautiful woman sitting quietly, watching them both. Hard also not to daydream, to imagine this was a real life.

Karia settled down and enjoyed the attention. This was more like it. No shouting, no anger and no Martil covered in blood. Just a nice fire, a funny saga about a princess who was made to sleep with a small vegetable under her mattress and herself as the centre of attention. This was the sort of thing Father Nott used to speak about. This was the life she wanted.

Merren watched Martil read to Karia and felt a strange, wistful pang. Her mother had died young and she had been raised by a succession of nursemaids and tutors. Her father had been distant and rarely had enough time to spend with her. Even after anointing her as the future Queen, he had only ever wanted to talk to her about royal duties. When she was a little girl, she had longed for time with her father like this. It had never happened. He was always too busy. Would things have been different had that happened? It was impossible for her to say. Still, it did make her think about her own future children. They would need care and attention if they were to grow up into people the Dragon Sword would accept. She looked at Martil as he read quietly to the little girl. She was not blind; she had detected his attraction towards her. She had immediately thought it was something she could use to help keep him loyal, as it had worked with Barrett. At least she was pretty sure it could work like that. Anyway, the important thing was encouraging him to keep being a good man, and not the Butcher of Bellic. He was no good to her as a dead Dragon Sword wielder.

The sound of a horse disturbed the cosy scene. Martil guessed Barrett and Conal must be back. He stayed in the chair, wanting to hold onto the magic of the moment. But something made him wary, there was something about the footfalls as they crossed the veranda and dragged up to the door. He was already moving, lifting Karia up, when a hand pounded on the door and a voice, hoarse with emotion, bellowed:

‘Open up! In the name of Aroaril!’

Martil handed Karia to Merren and signalled towards the bedrooms. She nodded at once, and darted inside one. Martil felt his mind clear as he readied himself for battle. There was nothing that could come in that door that was going to get through him to them.

He freed the latch and jumped back, Dragon Sword held low, ready for the rush.

Instead the door swung open and one man stumbled inside. A man who fell to his knees and raised his hands towards Martil in supplication. It was only when he turned his tear-streaked face up that Martil recognised him.

‘Count Sendric!’

14

Cezar slipped in through the window and crossed to the bed silently. It had been a long hunt. His delay in returning from Norstalos had allowed Earl Byrez to almost disappear into an underground network of Aroaril-worshippers and sympathisers.

But, after his failure in Norstalos, Cezar was in no mood to give up. An afternoon of torture had revealed this location and he was now only steps away from finishing his mission.

The shape in the bed was unmoving as he walked silently across the floorboards—but a whisper of noise to his left made him dive forwards; just in time, as a sword hissed through the air where his head would have been.

Still kneeling, Cezar sent a pair of throwing knives flying back towards his attacker. One thudded into the wall, the other struck home.

The man gasped in pain and Cezar drew a shortsword and leapt forward, deflecting aside a weak thrust to ram his blade home.

The stricken man staggered back, and moonlight through the window revealed him to be Earl Byrez.

‘This is not the end,’ the dying man groaned. ‘My son will see Markuz destroyed.’

‘No, he won’t,’ Cezar told him coldly before cutting his throat.

There was little of the satisfaction he normally felt when completing a kill. He was still haunted by his failure to kill Martil, and now Onzalez had told him he could not go back to Norstalos immediately. He must wait for word from Ezok. But Onzalez had reassured him: ‘You shall face him and the fight will finish with you standing over his fallen body. I have seen it.’

It was hard to be patient but at least that thought was a comfort. He would wait, and the waiting would make the victory all the sweeter.

Merren, Martil and Karia watched the Count gulp down a cup of wine. Martil had helped the Count sit at the table, and then had summoned Merren and Karia from the bedroom.

‘What happened?’ Merren demanded.

The Count passed a shaking hand over his face. ‘My daughter. It is my daughter. After you left, soldiers arrived, demanding answers. I told them I had sent you away, and I believed you had left through magical means. I invited them to search the castle, which they did, leaving empty-handed a turn of the hourglass later. Almost as soon as they had gone, I rushed down to see old Father Quiller, who has been our family’s priest since I was a boy. I asked him to contact friends in the capital, to see if my daughter was all right and if Gello had taken any action against Rana and the other ladies-in-waiting. It was in my mind to appeal to the local commander, a man called Jennar, to send word to the Duke that I had done nothing to help you. That way my daughter could be released. But within another turn of the hourglass, the news came back to us.’

‘Yes?’ The Queen’s face had gone white.

The Count looked up at her and seemed to dissolve, tears running down his cheeks. ‘Your majesty, Gello’s men have…abused…then killed my daughter and the rest of your ladies-in-waiting. My friends were able to reply so quickly because they saw the naked bodies hanging from the palace walls.’

The Count dropped his head into his hands, but Martil turned to Merren. Her face was pale, there was a muscle jumping along her jawline, and she seemed to be holding herself together only by an extraordinary effort of will. He half-reached out to her, to give her a shoulder to cry on, a hug for comfort—he did not know, only that he should offer something.

But she merely held up her hand. A single tear escaped her, rolling down her cheek until she cuffed it away angrily.

‘Now, Sendric, you see what we are up against. For defying Gello, my friends, your daughter, were foully abused then murdered,’ she said in a voice so icy Martil thought it must surely break. ‘But if you and the other nobles who hate Gello had united behind me years ago, we would not have come to this. Now we must destroy Gello to put this right.’

Sendric looked up. ‘My Queen, I am willing to do anything you ask of me. My life is unimportant. Ask of me what you will.’

Merren stood, walked around the table and helped Sendric to his feet.

‘I share your pain, Sendric. Mine is made bitter by the knowledge good men like yourself were too scared to do anything before. But I can promise you this, we shall have revenge.’

‘What of the prostitute I hired to impersonate the Queen?’ Martil could not help but ask. He regretted the deaths of the ladies-in-waiting, but at least they knew what they had been letting themselves in for. Lahra, or Rabbag, had been tricked by money.

‘As far as I know, she was set free. Only the bodies of the ladies were hung from the walls,’ Sendric shrugged, obviously uninterested in the fate of a whore.

‘Gello’s birthday is soon. She was probably booked to perform there,’ Merren said bitterly.

Martil decided to change the subject swiftly.

‘Count Sendric. Gello’s actions mean three things. First, he is incredibly confident. He is willing to alienate four nobles by killing their daughters…’

‘One noble,’ Merren corrected him. ‘The other three were daughters of wealthy merchants or former soldiers.’

‘Still, one noble. Second, he is happy for people to know what happens to those who oppose him. Third, he is not concerned you will find out how your daughter died. You know what that means.’

‘Aye. Either there is a force on the way to kill me, or orders for the local garrison to do the same.’

‘Then we must gather what men you can and find somewhere quiet to use as our base. This lodge is too small, and too easy to find. We shall start raiding, and then we shall start to make Gello afraid of us.’

‘How many men will you need? I have my personal guard, then there are my hunters, and I’m sure some of the militia would be willing to help.’

‘No more than fifty. We need to start small, and work upwards,’ Martil said confidently.

‘Horses!’ Sendric said, alarmed.

They could all hear hoofbeats, but Martil held out a hand.

‘Just two. It will be Barrett and Conal—unless you think you were followed, Count?’

‘No. I used the secret passage to get out. None could have followed me.’

Sure enough, Barrett’s secret knock echoed through the cabin a moment later. He and Conal arrived with sacks full of fresh food, to be horrified by the news the Count brought, yet pleased it meant they could start working towards Gello’s downfall.

‘We have a busy night. We need to split up, get the men, get supplies and get to our new campsite,’ Martil declared.

‘Count Sendric. I appreciate you are the only noble in this small group, but War Captain Martil here is a veteran of the Ralloran wars. He is also the Dragon Sword wielder. I wish I had been taught the arts of war but my dear father and aunt decided I should be kept from them. As I cannot run a campaign, I will appoint Martil as my military commander.’

The Count shrugged. ‘I do not care. I seek only revenge, then a quick death.’

Merren walked over to him and forced him to look at her.

‘We are not doing this to die. We are doing this to win. Understand? You shall all be my advisers. I was banned from studying warfare by my father but I am a quick learner. So I will need to hear each night how our plans are advancing. Now come, we have no time to waste.’

After a few days of frenetic activity, the tiny rebellion was taking shape. For Martil, these were strangely familiar times. It almost took him back to the days when he was training the Ralloran army. Sendric had found them almost fifty men, a combination of his personal guard, his hunters and militiamen of long experience that he could trust. Sendric had wanted to also bring Father Quiller along, but the old priest had refused, saying he needed to look after his flock. That had been something of a blow, as Martil knew they would need a priest’s healing powers at some stage. But at least, thanks to Sendric’s hunters, they found the perfect camp, a cave system in the hills, hidden by the woods.

Martil was worried it would become unpleasant in the depths of winter but Merren assured him that was still months away. As well as being extensive enough to house all the men and their families, there was plenty of fresh water from a nearby stream and an abundant source of game through the woods. Barrett was careful not to tell Karia about it, but each day he summoned deer, or birds and rabbits for the cooking pots. As well, all the rebels had brought copious amounts of dried oats and salt.

The caves were hardly comfortable, but they did their best to make them liveable—again. They had found some unusual drawings on the walls, as well as piles of old bones and rotting animal skins.

‘This must have been a home to the goblins,’ Sendric decided. ‘Perhaps even the seat of their High Chief! Before we drove them into the north, they were all through this forest. It would have been an ideal spot for them.’

Martil looked at the crude paintings of hunting and dancing and wondered at the life they had left behind here. From what he had heard, the northern mountains were harsh and inhospitable. The paintings fascinated Karia as well.

‘What sort of creature are these goblins?’ she asked, trying to compare her hand size with the handprints on the cave walls.

‘They look similar to us, a bit shorter, much hairier and their speech is very different. Once this was all theirs. But this is a rich land, with fine forests, good farmland and deposits of gold and silver. When our people began to settle the land, the goblins tried to drive us away. But they could not hope to stop our cavalry, archers and armoured infantry. For years they raided us and fought back but they have accepted the reality that this will never be theirs again, and they leave us alone,’ Sendric told her.

‘I would love to meet one,’ Karia sighed.

‘I don’t think that’s going to happen,’ Sendric smiled.

Martil reflected that the goblins may not have known how to defend their land from the invading Norstalines but they knew how to find a good home. It was almost ideal. They had used crude stone walls to divide the caves into useful areas. With some enthusiastic help from Karia, Barrett conjured up powerful blasts of wind to clean the system, then encouraged huge amounts of herbs to grow, which were then magically dried and placed around the caves. The smell of lavender, lemon balm and thyme freshened the stale caves. Furniture from the magician’s lodge, as well as from Sendric’s country home had been brought along on pack animals.

The country home, a huge house with a score of bedrooms, had proved a godsend, providing everything from a huge variety of clothes and blankets to tables, chairs, plates, cutlery, food, spices, a number of domestic animals and even two female servants who were remarkably accommodating. Sendric, Martil and Barrett all felt it was not essential for Merren to discover that fact. The families had only been able to bring along as much as they could carry—getting them all out of the city had been a task in itself. Luckily the underground passage had another entrance, into the cellars of a house belonging to the commander of Sendric’s personal guard. The men and their families left both this way and through the gate. Obviously they had been forced to leave much behind and anything they lacked, such as beds, had to be built.

Once the early work on the caves had been done, life settled into more of a pattern.

During the day, the women worked to grow food, as well as to keep the caves clean and make them feel more homely. They also had a never-ending task of washing and cleaning clothes. Sendric’s country house had provided plenty but living in woods and caves, and working and training, meant those clothes did not stay clean for long.

As to the men, training them was the most important thing. They were in three groups, and Martil made these into squads, trying to use the rivalry between them to spur each other on.

First came Sendric’s guards. There were two 10-man squads, as well as two sergeants and a lieutenant called Rocus. They were all well armed, with mail shirts, shiny helmets, shields with the Count’s crest, and long swords. They had been drilled to perfection—to carry out ceremonial duties. However, the manual of arms was not the best teaching device for the skills necessary to break through a shield wall. And if their swordsmanship was clumsy, their fitness was abysmal. Too much time standing post, and not enough time running, had them exhausted after only a taste of Martil’s training.

The hunters numbered eleven, as well as a chief hunter called Tarik. These were fit men, used to running all day and night, brilliant archers to boot, but unused to working with others. They operated in small groups of two or three usually, were unable to take orders and were just as likely to chase after a deer as they were to follow Martil’s instructions.

Then there were the militia. Sendric had tried to choose those men with at least ten years’ service, but not so many years that they were too old for this sort of venture. He had selected a dozen men, as well as a lieutenant called Wime. They were tough men, who were all veterans of tavern brawls and street fights. Martil knew this type of experience could not be beaten; it was the sort of thing needed to survive a battle. They were crafty, could take orders, and knew all about operating as a team and protecting each other’s back in a fight. But they were only armed with thick wooden sticks, and wore only boiled leather coats for protection.

Each group had its own abilities, and its own weaknesses. Using each to the greatest benefit would be the real challenge.

Martil felt it was important to work them hard, to stop them thinking about what they were doing. Obedience and loyalty to Count Sendric had brought them here. But that would not be enough when it came to a battle. They had to believe in their cause. And that would take time.

The first day they looked a strange sight. The guardsmen were lined up immaculately, two ranks, sergeants at the ends, Rocus at the front, all in their polished armour and all standing to attention. The hunters stood in a group, chatting among themselves, while the militia had formed into a rough line but stood relaxed, waiting to see what he would do.

Martil had no intention of giving them a big speech, or impressing them with his war stories. It was more important to win their respect.

He set them against each other in pairs, trying to ensure each fought against a man from a different group. It made for some spirited exchanges, as guardsmen accused militiamen of unfair tactics when they used moves they had learned in street fights.

Martil tried to show them all how to handle their swords better, persuade the guardsmen that nobody was ever sent from the field of battle for cheating and explain it was no good complaining when your guts were hanging out.

Martil worked them hard, trying to get their fitness up first. The hunters excelled here, making the other two groups look foolish on the runs, while the guardsmen were left floundering even on the forced marches.

But although they were the group that finished last most often, the guardsmen had a stubborn pride that he liked. You needed that in battle.

Of course there were other problems.

Karia was less than impressed with the amount of time Martil was spending training the men. She wanted to come along, which was impossible. Martil had forbidden any of the men’s families to come and watch, partly because it was a distraction, and partly because he did not want the men to be humiliated in front of their wives and children as they trained. There were quite a few children in the group but Karia found it hard to play with them. Her tendency to announce things better left unsaid had meant a few children of the militiamen had even started asking what a ‘shit-slinger’ was. Barrett giving her magic lessons proved to be the saviour, although Martil disliked the time she spent with him.

Merren was another issue. She was happier to at least be doing something but she was always demanding more in their regular council meetings. Conal and Sendric had formed an unlikely partnership, and rode out each morning to scout around the area and see where they might be vulnerable—as well as where they might be able to spring an ambush. From them she demanded news and pushed them to make contact with any nearby farmers. Barrett, who was using the local birds as his scouts, was ordered to range further, to find out more, to come up with a way for Martil to use the Dragon Sword properly.

The meetings always started with a solemn inspection of the Dragon Sword, to see if the dragon on the hilt was indicating anything. It stayed stubbornly inanimate. Martil began to dread these meetings and did his best to avoid them. But there was no escape. Merren insisted he also instruct her in tactics and logistics, so she could catch up on the lessons in warfare she had missed in her childhood. He did enjoy this, for she was a quick learner and soon saw how creating an army was not just about gathering men but also about weapons, food and training.

Perhaps too quick a learner, because Martil was ordered to push the men harder, faster. Reports of steady progress were dismissed. She wanted things to happen now, if not yesterday. Above all she wanted to know what Gello was doing, and that was something they could not answer, much to her displeasure. The meetings often ended with her shouting at them, then ordering them out.

After an unfortunate incident early on, they also tried to keep her away from the men’s families. Some of the women were naturally concerned, both for their men and for themselves. Especially the guardsmen’s families. These had been plucked from their cosy quarters, where they received a privileged life, and dumped into the woods. The camp was comfortable enough, with food, water and shelter, but it was still a far cry from the neat row of houses the pampered guardsmen had lived in.

A delegation had tried to meet the Queen, to ask how long they would be out here and when they might retake the town. Merren had been less than impressed to receive this delegation, given she was already chafing at the delay herself. After some choice words, the wives were sent packing and Martil, via Rocus and his sergeants, had to calm the families down. After that, they ensured any questions from the families went to Sendric first.

Martil felt this was perhaps behind her unusual order, which saw him take sides with Barrett for the first time—against her.

‘This skulking around in the forest is intolerable! Why don’t we just get Barrett to take us back to Norstalos City? We could bring these men with us, then use his power to burst into the palace and destroy Gello!’ she declared one evening. ‘After all, if he’s such a powerful wizard, and you’re such a skilled warrior, it should prove no problem!’

Martil and Barrett had exchanged horrified glances before Barrett hurriedly spoke.

‘My Queen, my power is finite. Yes, I could bring all these men to my house in the capital. But the effort would exhaust me. I could do little to break into the palace. And that is even presuming I can get out of the house. After the way we rescued you, Gello would undoubtedly have the place watched. We could be walking into a trap.’

Martil decided he’d better back up Barrett. ‘Merren, you’ve seen how Gello has guarded the palace. There’s a full company of troops on duty there at all times. He won’t be caught the way your Royal Guard were. We would be attacked as soon as we got into the plaza in front of the palace. That means the cavalry would have time to mount up and charge us before we got to the gate. It would be a massacre. And even if Barrett could get us past them, there’s a second company there in reserve as well. We’d be outnumbered four to one. And after all that, if we were somehow able to sneak inside and kill Gello while those men out there sold their lives to give us the time, killing Gello may not be the end. You’ve lost the throne. All those who support you are out here, while Gello has many supporters. His army officers could take control, or one of his backers.’

‘Indeed,’ Sendric agreed. ‘Either Cessor or Worick would see themselves as the next logical successor. Do you think they would tamely submit to your rule again?’

Merren eventually agreed, but they could tell she was seething about it, days later.

Still, these were enjoyable days for most: the woods where they worked and lived were far from any villages, and, apart from Merren’s meetings, it almost seemed as though they were cut off from the rest of the country and its problems. Martil always ate with Karia, and often Conal would join them, and later, Wime, Tarik, Rocus and their families. Conal seemed to be changing, as well. He was still ready to try a jest rather than say something serious, but the fact he could ride and work with Count Sendric, and receive nothing but praise from the old noble, said volumes.

The quiet times with Karia were the perfect counterpoint to Martil’s day, even though she still liked him to play dolls with her. Not having to think about tactics, or training, or the political situation down south, was truly relaxing.

Karia had been worried about the idea of living in a forest—the last time she had done so, she had hated it. But this was very different. It was a better time of year, warmer, with less rain for a start. Then there was food, there was Martil and finally there was her magic. Working with Barrett was exciting and each new discovery was thrilling. She looked forward to the tests and training almost as much as she looked forward to stories from Martil. She did wonder why Barrett kept taking her to the Queen and talking about her progress, but she thought he was just being nice. It was strange. He was nice to her, and Martil was nice to her, but the two of them were never nice to each other. She sometimes wondered why.

One day Barrett and Karia wandered past the training ground as Martil was demonstrating how a man with just a sword could still beat a man with a sword and shield.

‘Come to join us?’ he called to Barrett. ‘Feel like making a real contribution to our campaign?’

There were plenty of chuckles from the men at that. The wizard may be on their side, but that did not mean he was particularly liked, or trusted.

‘No thanks, I wouldn’t like to make our War Captain look foolish in front of his men,’ Barrett shouted back.

There were a few incredulous gasps and cries from the listening men, who had had ample chances to see how good Martil was with a blade.

Martil looked closely at Barrett. He had wanted to send the man on his way quickly, so Karia would not demand to watch him for the rest of the afternoon and upset the men whose own children wanted to be spectators. But surely the mage did not want to be humbled in front of the men. He had seen enough wizards to know they were hardly useful on the battlefield. ‘Are you truly suggesting you could match me in combat?’

‘No,’ Barrett replied.

Martil started to turn away, a small smile on his face.

‘I’m saying I would beat you.’

Martil turned back. He knew he should make some jest and then quietly ask Barrett to move along, but he had not become a war captain by doing the quiet, sensible thing. Besides, now was his chance to shut this bloody wizard up.

‘Why don’t you stop talking and come and show me,’ he suggested.

Barrett smiled coldly. ‘It should be a short lesson,’ he retorted. He knew he should have let the muscled oaf have his moment of fun and just turned around but in truth he was feeling unappreciated. Merren was never happy with his reports, although somehow she was more pleased by Martil. He felt the lessons Martil was giving her were to blame for that. Then there were the men of this small rebel band. He was the Queen’s Magician, one of the most powerful men ever admitted to the Ninth Circle. He was also responsible for ensuring everyone was fed. But was he feted, was he admired and applauded? No, it was that bloody Ralloran that they all went on about. He had had enough.

In a matter of moments, the two of them were standing in a huge circle of men, with many of the women and children hurrying to join as well. Both men wore tunics and trousers, although while Martil held two short wooden swords, Barrett just had his staff—until he closed his eyes for a moment.

The crowd gasped as Barrett’s staff, a stout stick perhaps four feet high, was now twice its length and thick enough so that two hands could not encompass it. And Barrett was twirling it around as if it weighed no more than a feather. Martil had no doubt that if it struck him, it would not feel like a feather. Well, the wizard had pulled a clever move, but the game had not even started yet.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Martil invited.

Barrett nodded, then crouched and leapt, soaring twice the height of a man into the air, before bringing his staff down in a huge swing as he landed, the force of the blow making a strange singing noise through the air, and creating a wind that made the crowd’s hair fly.

But Martil was not there, having ducked and rolled away as Barrett took off.

‘You know, if you could do that in battle, we would have a use for you at our side,’ he said conversationally.

‘I can do better. Watch,

’Barrett smiled, and the crowd gasped and cried out as his skin darkened, turning a deep wooden colour. ‘Arrows will just bounce off me. Swords could only just pierce my skin. Only an axe blow could hurt me now.’

‘That’s a clever trick,’ Martil admitted, then attacked even as he was talking. Once he was inside that fearsome staff’s reach, he knew he could hit Barrett.

But the wizard did not wait for him to arrive, leaping up and over Martil’s head, and striking back as soon as he landed. Martil spun, ducked under the staff and jabbed his wooden swords at the wizard’s chest.

Barrett seemed to float backwards, the massive staff moving impossibly swiftly to block every one of Martil’s blows, while the wizard’s feet barely touched the ground as he moved away.

Sweating now, Martil stopped pursuing him, and instantly Barrett leapt forward, the giant staff weaving and darting, humming loudly with the force of each blow. Now it was Martil’s turn to dodge and weave. He ducked, jumped, sidestepped and used both swords to block the blows, his footwork dazzling. Every piece of trickery he had learnt across the southern battlefields, every training session, was being utilised. But he was not thinking about it. The screams, calls and cries from the crowd, the fact even Merren had come out to see what the commotion was, none of those things affected him.

Even the competition between himself and Barrett was forgotten. It was down to reaction, instinct and skill. He just had to trust himself and his abilities. The only thing he was aware of was the way sweat was now dripping off Barrett. The wizard was obviously using plenty of energy to sustain this level of magic and had to be tiring. It was just a question of outlasting him.

Barrett’s face was beginning to tighten with the effort and suddenly his skin lightened back to its normal tone, evidence he had dropped his magical protection, which was pointless anyway. Instantly Martil leapt forward, forcing Barrett to break off and perform another of his giant leaps away. But this time Martil chased him, and then launched another furious attack.

Barrett flipped over his head and the staff came whistling around; it was only Martil’s reactions that saved him, as he managed to deflect the huge blow over his shoulder. He could see the strain on Barrett’s face now, and thrust a sword at his face. The staff came up and deflected it, then whirred around. Martil dropped to one knee to get under the blow and the staff came down at him, Barrett feeling Martil could not get away this time. And Martil did not try to get away, instead he swayed aside as the staff came down, then struck with both swords—not at Barrett but at the staff, the two wooden swords crossing over to trap the staff against the ground. He kicked out at Barrett’s legs, forcing the wizard to jump away and let go of his staff.

Martil got to his feet, breathing heavily, to see a defiant Barrett puffing and sweating a few paces away. Martil expected to see him looking defeated, but he just looked angry.

Barrett was kicking himself for letting go of his staff. But he knew how to get it back. It would take plenty of power but leaving himself drained was not important. Defeating Martil, and retaining respect, was.

‘Come on then, finish it,’ he invited.

Martil looked into his eyes and had the horrible feeling the wizard was going to try some more magic if he stepped forwards. Something that was going to hurt them both.

‘And what a wonderful finish it was!’ Merren said loudly, walking into the circle and applauding them.

Instantly the watching men, women and children were cheering, and both Martil and Barrett were forced to acknowledge the crowd.

‘You can go into battle knowing you will be fighting with the mightiest magician in the world, and the mightiest warrior as well!’ Merren cheered them both, then walked until she was close enough to hiss at them both: ‘Shake hands! Do it now! Don’t make me ask again!’

Martil reluctantly reached over, and Barrett equally reluctantly took his hand, and the cheers redoubled.

Barrett went back to teaching Karia, while most of the men all wanted Martil to teach them some of the moves he had used against Barrett.

But it was not the end of it. They tried to avoid each other after that, both knowing they had been in the wrong, both knowing that Karia was upset they did not like each other—and both knowing Merren was watching them closely. For Karia’s sake, they tried to pretend it was all a joke. But ironically it was over Karia that their antagonism flared once more.

‘I hope you’re not pushing her too hard,’ Martil cautioned Barrett one night, after Karia had yawned all the way through the evening meal; Merren had ordered a full council meeting over roast lamb and then had roasted them all on the lack of progress.

‘Do you know magic? Do you know the right way to train someone?’ Barrett said defensively.

Martil saw his opportunity to put Barrett in his place.

‘No, but I know Karia. She will say she wants to keep going, even when she is tired. Which, incidentally, she will never admit to, even when her eyelids are drooping and she can barely get a word out because she is yawning so much,’ Martil snapped.

‘I can feel how tired she is, by the way she performs her exercises,’ Barrett argued. ‘Besides, part of learning magic is learning your limits, and pushing yourself. I know what she is like, and when not to let her do any more.’

‘She’s too small to be pushed too far! I know her better!’ Martil insisted.

‘Better? Because you killed her father and brothers?’ Barrett sneered.

‘Enough!’ Merren’s voice whiplashed across the table. ‘I need a word with both of you.’

Martil glared at Barrett, who stared back, and the pair of them followed her deeper into the cave system, away from the large cave which Merren had established as her audience chamber, and where they had all been eating around the wooden table from the lodge.

‘I know what this is about,’ she told them quietly, her voice clipped and angry.

This time the look that Martil and Barrett exchanged was part nervous, part accusatory.

‘The two of you both want to be the hero, trying to outdo each other to win my attention. Just what you expect to achieve by doing that, I do not know. Indeed, I do not want to think about it. This country’s future, my future, rests on your skills. If you cannot work together, then we have no chance of beating Gello. I must ask you now to either put aside your differences or go. You do not have to like each other, but I refuse to see either myself or Karia used as pawns in some ridiculous game between the two of you. Is that understood?’

‘My apologies, your majesty, you may now put this out of your mind.’ Barrett bowed deeply. He smiled inwardly. Apologising first was always the best move. He knew it impressed women.

‘We shall work together,’ Martil agreed quickly. He had no intention of letting Barrett take the moral high ground.

‘Then let us hear no more about it.’

Martil knew that Barrett had been in love with her for years, although she either did not realise, or did not want to encourage or return those feelings. Martil hoped it was the latter. Now he wanted to be close to her, to win her approval, and, thanks to the Dragon Sword, he was in the ideal position. Sometimes he found himself wishing this training would go on forever.

The next day, everything changed.

Barrett and Karia had been talking to the birds, asking them to search for different items—and one came back with news that an army was marching towards Sendric. More birds were despatched to look, while two of the trusted militiamen slipped back into Sendric to find out what was happening there.

The news they returned with was both worrying and interesting. A force of five hundred cavalrymen had arrived, led by a Captain Havrick. Martil had not wanted to believe the coincidence, but when they reported the man had a broken nose, he had to believe the man had been sent north deliberately.

Together with the three hundred infantry that was the town’s garrison, they were to search the area and hunt down the rebels. Eight hundred men, including two hundred heavy cavalry, was a powerful force. The entire Tetran army would have been hard pressed to defeat it. The council that night in the caves was a grim one.

‘What are we to do?’ Merren asked, not in despair, but in a genuine query.

‘Obviously we are not going to challenge them in the open. What we are going to do is make them look foolish. Gello has done exactly what I hoped he would.’ Martil smiled at the looks on their faces and continued: ‘He has sent too many men, under an inexperienced commander. I saw the way Havrick looks after his men and horses. He doesn’t. So, we should try to keep them in the field as long as possible. Soon they are going to be short of food, because eight hundred men, and particularly five hundred horses, take a great deal of supplying. They are going to have lame horses pretty soon, and hungry men. They will probably start stealing food from the local farms, which will encourage the farmers to help us. Meanwhile, we’ll be attacking their supply columns. Then the weather will start getting colder; there will be more rain. Men and beasts will start getting sick. Soon enough we’ll be cutting them down to size. Now, they are a proud, well-equipped force that will take on anything. In a few months’ time, they will be at our mercy. And we will start with the supply column they must have following them.’

‘Won’t they have had one with them?’ Barrett asked.

‘Too big. It will be a day or so behind by now. It’ll be guarded, because it’s stuffed full of armour and food. But with surprise, we can take it for ourselves. With food and arms, we’ll be halfway towards victory.’

Merren smiled broadly. ‘Then it will be our first strike against Gello! And not before time!’

Sendric spread a map of the area on the table and Conal leant over to mark the ideal ambush spot, where the road passed beneath a ridge.

‘There are a few other spots, but nowhere puts them more vulnerable,’ he declared. ‘It is also reasonably close to the forest. There is one spot closer still, but we will not have nearly as much protection or surprise for an ambush.’

‘I want to see the squad leaders,’ Merren declared.

Martil was a little nervous about this, after the way she had torn strips off their families, but she was the Queen and they were fighting for her, so the men were sent for. The three squad leaders filed in. Rocus was the first, as Martil had known he would be. Tall, fair-haired, with a square jaw and blue eyes, he was the perfect embodiment of the saga hero. Unfortunately, he was also stubborn, and Martil had caught him numerous times admiring himself in the reflection from his own helmet. He was brave enough, but Martil could not yet trust him not to do something foolish.

Tarik was lean, but with the huge arms and chest of a bowman. His face was burnt brown by the sun and he was reluctant to smile or even speak. But he was steady, sensible and would carry out his tasks no matter what faced him. Already Martil trusted him.

Wime had spent twenty years on the streets, and it showed. Even a town like Sendric had its share of murderers and thieves, as well as men willing to fight after a few drinks. He had a scar down his cheek, courtesy of a broken bottle, and his hair was receding. He was dependable, could lead his men well, and did not lose concentration during a fight.

Martil explained their roles, how the double lines of Rocus’s guardsmen would make the supply column’s escort charge, then the archers could turn that charge into wreckage and the militia would come in and clean up.

‘We’re going to need to either destroy or get as much of those supplies back here as we can,’ he told them. ‘We must secure those wagons. Havrick must not get anything he needs.’

‘How are we going to get them back through the woods without leaving a trail a blind man could follow?’ Tarik grunted.

‘You’ll have some help there,’ Barrett said confidently.

‘I have to admit I don’t like the idea much. I have always been sworn to the idea of stamping out banditry and thievery,’ Rocus rumbled.

‘Don’t worry, you won’t be doing any thievery. And if you feel that bad, we can make sure you don’t eat any of the supplies we take,’ Conal offered, winking at Martil.

Rocus just stared at him, unsure whether the old bandit was joking or serious.

‘Well, we are all sworn to the idea of stamping out Gello. Tomorrow we start. I want to hear about our first victory.’ Merren clapped her hands, and the council was done.

‘Tonight, tell your men to eat well and spend time with their families,’ Martil told the three squad leaders and, deciding to take his own advice, sat with Karia, talking about her new magic abilities and the little house she had built for her dolls out of wood and stones.

‘Can I come tomorrow? I can help!’ Karia asked.

‘I’m afraid not. It might be dangerous for you,’ Martil said gently.

‘Why?’

Martil found himself considering this carefully. He did not want to alarm her, but neither did he want her to come along to an ambush where men would die.

‘There’s some bad men who we are going to attack. People will be hurt.’

‘I can protect you! I know how Barrett protected his skin, and I can do it for you!’

Martil was a little hesitant about walking around looking as though he was made of wood.

‘Why don’t we get you some milk, and I’ll read you a story?’ he changed the subject hastily. The camp had a handful of goats, who supplied fresh milk every day. As the War Captain, he was able to ensure one cup of milk was kept for Karia. So he read her a story but she was not willing to go to sleep yet.

‘Who will look after me while you and Barrett are gone?’ she asked.

Martil was stumped. This had never been a problem for him before. ‘How about you stay with some of the other mothers?’

Karia made a face. Staying here was not something she wanted. She knew she could help Martil. But how to get him to take her along? Then she smiled. Of course! Demand to stay with someone who would not want to look after her.

‘I’ll stay with Merren, or nobody,’ she announced. ‘Either she looks after me or I’ll follow you.’

Martil looked at her carefully. ‘You want to stay with Merren? Why?’

Karia thought quickly. ‘She said I could be a princess. I want to start learning how.’

Martil strongly suspected he was being played for a fool, but he also recognised the look in her eye and the determined set to her jaw. At least he could eliminate Merren as a prospect, he thought. ‘I’ll ask her,’ he agreed.

‘Good. Now can you sing me to sleep?’

He sang until he was sure she was asleep, then he blew her a kiss and slipped out of her sleeping alcove. The caves had been further divided by hanging blankets as curtains. He let the blanket fall, cutting her off from the rest of the cave, then went to find Merren.

Count Sendric had managed to get tally scrolls for several of the gold mines from his country house, and Merren knew she was supposed to be looking over them, trying to assess how much money they might be able to get from those mines. Buying arms and armour could be a solution to their supply shortage. But she was unable to concentrate properly. These past few days had been particularly frustrating. At first she had been happy enough with progress but now she felt things were going too slowly. Gello was obviously cementing his rule over Norstalos and what was she doing? Watching a handful of men train! It was not being able to do anything to speed the process that she felt most infuriating. She was reliant on Martil, Barrett, Conal and Sendric to do the work for her. That was galling enough in itself but the real frustration was the sense that nothing had changed. Back at the palace she had been effectively powerless, kept so by Gello’s political manoeuvrings. Here she had supporters, but still no power. It was driving her crazy. She wanted to raise a massive army and sweep Gello out of the country, wreaking revenge for what he had done to her friends. But all because the stupid bloody dragons and her idiot ancestor King Riel hadn’t thought to make a Dragon Sword that could be used by a woman, she couldn’t do it. She wanted to drive Gello off the throne but instead she sat in a cave and received regular reports on not very much.

She threw down the tally scrolls in disgust. Yelling at Martil and Barrett relieved some of the frustration but ultimately did nothing to advance her cause. It was the sort of approach that had created problems with her nobles. They had defied her, they had cheated the people, they had even hired Lahra to perform at their parties so they could mock her, but if she shouted at them they sulked and turned into supporters of Gello.

She knew she would make a good ruler. She had so many hopes and ideas for the country, which would make it better, if only she could find the way to work with men. They were the real problem, she reflected. A king could swear at them, hit them and order them into exile and just be seen as a strong leader. If she did it, she was a cold-hearted bitch. Ultimately, they thought she was there just to produce an heir. She wanted to change that; there was so much she wanted to change, yet she felt like she was trapped, sinking deeper into the same mess that had mired her during her rule. There had to be a way to change!

The sound of Martil clearing his throat brought her back from her musings.

‘What is it, Captain?’ she asked sharply, then kicked herself for falling into that habit again.

‘Merren, I need to ask your help.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘Karia has asked if you can take care of her while I am away. I don’t know why she did so—it might have been because she wants to come on the raid with us—and I know you will be busy…’

Merren considered that. Busy all right. Busy doing nothing useful and worrying that she was just some kind of figurehead. Her first instinct was to refuse—she had had nothing to do with children until now and her intention was to keep it that way—then she thought again. Something within her was saying this could be a good idea. That at least she would be doing something more interesting than analysing tally sheets and trying to avoid thinking about her dead friends.

She nodded. ‘Of course I shall watch over her. I shall begin to teach her how to be a lady, for when she is at court.’

Martil was surprised at her acceptance but it did solve a problem, so he smiled. ‘Thank you. I shall tell Karia you will watch her until I return.’

Merren watched him go, wondering if she had made a mistake. Still, it couldn’t be worse than reading tally sheets—could it?

15

Martil looked over the captured convoy with satisfaction. The convoy was impressively large, more than a score of heavily-laden wagons, which had had a corresponding number of light cavalry as escort. It had all gone to plan. The cavalry had been talking amongst themselves, looking around and generally behaving as if they were out for a gentle ride. After a handful of horses had been brought down by Barrett’s magical trick with the sticks, the rest of them were slaughtered by Tarik’s archers, and the militia and guardsmen went in to take care of the wagoners and clean up the troopers.

‘Quickly now! We must get as far away as possible today,’ Martil urged the men on.

There was much to do. Some of the draught horses were used to drag dead cavalry horses out of the way, Rocus moved the wounded troopers into shade and allowed the survivors to care for them, while Wime and Martil went through the wagons, deciding what they would keep, and what they would destroy.

The convoy had everything Martil had hoped for and more. There were thousands of arrows in sheaves, scores of shields and swords, as well as barrels of spears and racks of axes. There were two wagons alone filled with thick, boiled leather jerkins, nowhere as good as mail hauberks but still solid enough to stop most sword strokes. There were all the supplies needed to keep five hundred horses in the field—spare saddles, new reins, barrels of horseshoes and a portable forge.

Then there was the food. Wagon upon wagon piled high with bags of grain for the horses, as well as twice-baked bread and dried meat for the men. Enough to keep a force for months.

‘We’ll take the five wagons filled with weapons. Tarik, you’ll stay behind with half your men. Give us until nightfall—or until you see someone—then burn what’s left and follow us as fast as you can,’ Martil decided.

It was hard work, but Martil guessed they were able to roll out of the ambush site only a couple of turns of the hourglass after the first arrows had flown. Thanks to Barrett’s magical abilities, where he made the trees shrink back to seed, they were able to take the wagons deep into the woods, until the trees grew too thick and Barrett too tired. There they unhitched the draught horses and loaded them up with as much as they could carry, then loaded every other horse they had brought along. The men took as much as they could, then the little that was left was spoiled or broken.

Even so, it was a slow walk back to the caves. Tarik and his men caught up with them after dark, sweating, smelling faintly of smoke and all wearing a jerkin of the leather armour and carrying sheaves of arrows.

‘Havrick’s trackers are going to get a shock,’ Tarik smiled.

Martil found the breath to laugh, although he was wearing two of the jerkins and carrying four spears over each shoulder. Barrett had let the trees regrow so Havrick’s men would find five wagons in the middle of the woods, surrounded by trees, with no possible way in or out.

The men had left before dawn, which meant all the families had been up that early to wave them off. Karia had waved at Martil, bottom lip trembling, then had burst into tears as they walked out of sight.

Merren was not sure what to do with a crying child but thought she had better do something. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked stiffly.

‘I w—wanted to go w—with them,’ Karia sniffed.

‘I wanted to go with them as well,’ Merren admitted. ‘I don’t like waiting here.’

‘You don’t?’ Karia forgot about crying and looked up at the Queen. Perhaps she wasn’t so strange after all. She had been so sure Merren would refuse to look after her, she had not been able to think up a better plan in time.

‘I hate staying here. It’s boring me to tears,’ Merren shrugged. She did not know how to treat small children, so decided just to say what she thought.

‘Me too!’ Karia agreed. ‘I thought I could trick Martil into letting me come along, but then you said yes.’

Merren smiled at the brutal honesty. ‘Can you get Martil to do what you want most of the time?’

‘Oh yes, him and Barrett. They both do things for me all the time.’

This time Merren laughed out loud. She felt a sudden surge of mischief. The past was dead and her first rule as Queen of Norstalos was over. She really could do anything she wanted for her second. ‘Shall we get some breakfast? Then you can tell me how you get Martil and Barrett to do things for you,’ she suggested.

Martil was pleased to see Karia waving to him, and also to see the admiring look Merren was giving him. He would have liked nothing better than to go over and greet them both but there was too much to do.

A place had to be found for the horses, and the tired Barrett had to make the woods retreat so the horse paddock did not take up the training ground. Then the arms and armour had to be stored away in the caves. Finally, the small barrel of wine that—surprise, surprise!—Conal had discovered was broached and the men ate and drank.

‘My thanks to you all. You have struck the first blow in what will become an amazing tale, one to rival the stories of King Riel and the dragons,’ Merren told the men and their families, Karia by her side.

They cheered her and each other until they were hoarse, and, watching their faces, Martil felt now they actually believed in Merren’s cause. It was an important step.

Then, even though they were exhausted, the Queen insisted they hold their nightly council. The tally of men killed and weapons taken did not take long, but Sendric looked displeased by the time they had finished.

‘I’m concerned you left men alive behind you. They could give Havrick information about our lack of numbers. Far better you had killed them all. We are talking about making Gello pay. His men are all animals and need to be put down like a pack of rabid dogs,’ Sendric announced coldly.

‘Count Sendric!’ Merren’s voice whiplashed across the table. ‘What would the Dragon Sword have thought of killing unarmed men? The danger posed by a few men is far smaller than the real possibility that the Dragon Sword may continue to reject Captain Martil if he butchers unarmed men.’

Martil winced at that. Once again he had shown the Dragon Sword’s hilt, and once again there was a distinct lack of anything from the dragon engraving.

Then Merren took a breath. Time to try a different approach, she decided. ‘I know you grieve for your daughter, as do I. But, as the Tetrans say, revenge is a dish best served cold. Fighting among ourselves and blaming each other will not help anyone.’

There was a long silence, then the Count slowly nodded.

‘You are right, my Queen. This was a perfect way to start our campaign. And you were right, Captain, to leave the men. The tale of our prowess will upset Gello far more than the deaths of a few men.’

Martil bowed to the Count, then Merren produced a map and changed the subject.

‘So, where do we strike next?’ she asked.

Martil glanced at the other faces around the table, whose shocked expressions mirrored how he felt, although he kept his face impassive.

‘My Queen, the next move is Havrick’s. He will either come looking for us, or will seek to entice us out and trap us. Either way, there are several courses of action open to us. But we must wait for him to react, then we can change the game plan again.’ He cringed inwardly, expecting that to set her off.

Merren looked at him, then at the map. ‘You are the War Captain, and I will listen to what you say,’ she said finally. ‘We shall leave this council here, with a toast. To victory!’

‘I’m going to get drunk!’ Conal announced as they drained their cups. He had taken on the role of trying to lighten the mood of the meetings. Merren, perhaps because she knew of his history, seemed to find him amusing, and a jest from Conal could usually stop one of her black moods.

‘This is the last of the wine. The men have the rest,’ Martil reminded him.

‘By Zorva’s filthy bunghole, if I’d known that, I’d have given my left hand for another cask,’ Conal exclaimed, then held up the stump of his arm and feigned surprise. ‘Too late!’

The room erupted into laughter.

‘Was that an audition for court jester?’ Merren chuckled.

‘My Queen, I could ask no more than to sit at your feet.’ Conal bowed. ‘But now I must find some wine. Who’s with me?’

Among the laughter, Martil felt a tug on his sleeve.

‘Can you read to me now?’ Karia asked.

Martil smiled. After every battle he had been in, he had gotten drunk with his fellow soldiers. At first it had been as they had remembered and boasted of their part in the fight. Then it became to honour lost friends. Then to forget all the other battles. Perhaps it was time to change.

The others were walking down to where food was roasting on fires and songs were being sung. But at the back of the caves, it was quieter, the blanket walls muffling the noise. He read her a saga about a young man whose amazing cat helped him outwit a goblin king and marry a princess, then sang her a song until she was almost asleep.

‘Did you have to kill anyone today?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t,’ Martil said, although he was conscious it was his orders that saw a dozen troopers slain by arrows, while at least another three had wounds that would kill them within days.

‘That’s good.’ She yawned.

‘How about your day? How did it go with Merren?’

‘She’s nice. She wanted to hear all about how you look after me and how you do things for me and are kind to me. And she even played dolls!’

‘You were lucky,’ Martil told her softly, then saw she had fallen asleep. Martil gazed down at her for a long moment. She looked so beautiful. Just listening to her soft breathing made him relax. He leaned down and kissed her forehead before backing slowly out of the sleeping alcove he had made for her, letting fall the thick blanket that gave her some privacy.

Then he turned around and almost bumped into Merren, who was standing behind him.

‘Your majesty!’ he blurted.

‘Quiet! You’ll wake her. I just wanted to give her a kiss goodnight.’ Merren lifted the curtain and blew a kiss down at Karia. ‘Anyway, I thought we decided, while we were alone, you should be calling me Merren. I’m hardly the Queen of much out here, and don’t particularly enjoy being “your majesty-ed” all day.’

‘But should we be alone?’ Martil asked, feeling very conscious of both how near she was, and how he had been having daydreams—and night dreams for that matter—about her.

‘Are you scared for my safety? Here, with the Dragon Sword wielder?’

‘Not so much your safety, but more the propriety,’ he said stiffly.

Merren had to cover her mouth with her hand to stop her peal of laughter. ‘We’re in a cave system, with the few comforts we could scavenge from a lodge and from Sendric’s country home, rebelling against Duke Gello after he seized control of my country, and I’m to be worried about propriety?’

Martil was pleased she was showing no intention of moving away from him. ‘We should make sure we don’t wake her, at least,’ he said.

They walked slowly away from the sleeping areas. Merren’s mind was racing. Talking with Karia had made her think. That little girl had everyone running around after her. Martil, Barrett, Conal; even Sendric was not immune to her charms. She was able to persuade them to do whatever she wanted—and what they would normally have refused out of hand with a combination of charm and the threat of a tantrum. Tantrums would hardly work for a Queen but she had other weapons. In some ways, this thinking had been a revelation to her. All this time she had been trying to be tougher than a king would be. But she was the first Queen. She could use whatever was at her disposal to save the throne and her country. And maybe that would bring better results. She had already seen it at work in the council meeting. Now she decided to try it out on Martil.

‘She was worried about you today. Afraid something might happen to you.’

Martil shrugged. He had long since stopped worrying about himself in battle. ‘I drew the Dragon Sword. I cannot escape the responsibility,’ he sighed.

‘You are worrying too much. The Sword sees not just the man you are, but the man you could be. And that little girl would not be so concerned about you if you were not good.’

‘If only it were that simple!’ Martil felt his throat constrict, as he remembered the last years of the war. ‘We were the good ones. The Berellians had invaded us, slaughtered men, women and children. My family was killed, my village was sacked and put to the torch. My friends…my friends died alongside me, fighting to free Rallora. And somewhere in there we turned from fighting to free our country to fighting to punish the Berellians. They wiped out seven towns, scores of villages. Yet what does everyone remember? Bellic. In that one act we went from being the heroes to being the Butchers of Bellic.’

Merren laid her hand on his upper arm; the contact made his heart suddenly jump and start pounding.

‘It is a lesson to remember. It is easy to do evil things, when you believe your cause is just. That is the inherent danger in the Dragon Sword—and why its power will kill those who do not live up to it. You have already made your mistakes. You are obviously haunted by them. That means there will not be another Bellic here.’

‘No,’ Martil agreed.

‘Then we shall triumph, my Champion.’

‘We should be careful. There are all those sagas about queens and their champions,’ Martil joked, conscious of her hand on his arm and cautious in case someone walked in.

‘Really? I never read the sagas,’ she shrugged. Inwardly she was smiling. Men were so stupid sometimes! She had mentioned this before, but flutter your eyelashes at him and he forgets all about it. She felt she may have discovered a key to her reign.

‘It’s quite famous,’ Martil assured her, wondering whether the small joke was about to backfire on him. Should he be going down this path of conversation? He had a nagging feeling she had spoken about it before. So what was she doing now?

‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a…’ she paused for an instant, ‘Champion before. Although,’ she paused again, ‘my ladies did say they looked forward to a man,’ she looked up at Martil, ‘championing them.’

Martil gazed into her eyes and tried to think over the hammering of his heart. All of a sudden this had gone beyond a joke. Was she teasing him, or was she inviting him? And if he made a move, would it start something that would end in disaster?

‘Can I have a drink of water, please?’ Karia’s voice cut through the atmosphere between them.

Merren laughed softly and turned to go, her hand brushing his arm as she walked away. Martil watched her go, unable to keep his eyes off the liquid way her hips moved in the tight trousers. It had been cut short but already their little conversation had had an effect on him. He knew he needed to be a better man. Although first he needed to go and get Karia a drink of water. And then he needed to go and pay a visit to one of the former servants from Sendric’s country house. These young women had provided important help around the caves, but it was the other services they offered that Martil needed. Otherwise there was no way he was going to sleep that night.

Captain Havrick loved the trappings of his new office. He had installed himself in the Count’s old quarters so he could sleep on silk sheets, eat fine food, drink vintage wine and summon whichever serving girl attracted his fancy to his bedchamber each night.

But he was beginning to loathe the responsibilities that came with it. All this time, he had thought captain’s rank just meant more money and a better uniform. It certainly brought respect, and that was the one thing he craved above all else. But with it came extra duties, ones he could not delegate to others.

The town council, nine men who were either rich merchants or tradesmen, always seemed to be complaining that they had to foot the bill for feeding and billeting his men and horses. And they were always whining that his men were taking what they wanted and threatening violence to anyone who tried to make them pay, or that they were getting drunk and then attacking the local women. Havrick was sure his second-in-command—a First Lieutenant called Jennar—was sending the town council in deliberately. As he saw it, once his men were off duty, they were entitled to enjoy themselves. Besides, as he told the council, this was war. Everyone had to make sacrifices.

Still, once he had armed and equipped a company of militia to watch the town while he was gone, he could forget about these lumpen councillors. He knew that once he had slaughtered the rebels and captured the Queen, anything he did here was forgiven. So he was waiting with decreasing patience for a convoy of supplies and weapons to arrive; then he could properly equip the militiamen, and other men, who had shown the right attitude. Then he could leave this fleapit of a town for his real duty.

He had left a standing order that he was to be notified immediately the convoy arrived.

So when a messenger burst into his chambers, he was not surprised. He was annoyed at the man’s timing, as the distraction allowed the serving girl to gather up his evening meal—as well as her dress—and leave before he could finish with her.

‘What is it?’ he snapped, thinking he would have to order the girl back with more food later.

‘The convoy, sir. It’s been attacked.’

Havrick felt a lurch of panic. ‘What happened?’

The messenger, a young trooper from Havrick’s light cavalry regiment, gulped. ‘It was the rebels, sir. They killed most of the escort, took the weapons and armour and burned all the food and supplies.’

Havrick sagged back in his chair. His plan had relied on that convoy! And now it was gone! He was horribly aware how Duke Gello reacted to failure. And on top of complaints from the town council…There was only one thing to do.

‘Get me every officer and sergeant!’ he barked.

The messenger almost leapt to attention. ‘Yes, sir!’ He sprinted for the door.

It was partly a measure of the messenger’s fear, partly a measure of how fast the news about the convoy had spread, but the officers from the various regiments, along with their senior sergeants, were gathered in the chamber soon afterwards.

Havrick glared at them. He knew many resented him. He had been a mere Second Lieutenant, able to command only a platoon or a squadron of men, while several of them were First Lieutenants, able to command a full company—or more. He had been jumped to War Captain, which gave him command of an entire regiment or, in this case, a small army. He did not care what they thought, although he knew Jennar had questioned some of his orders. Well, he would show them.

‘We leave at first light to fulfil our duty. We shall not return until we have crushed these rebels, killed the Dragon Sword wielder and captured the Queen. From what the survivors of the attack told us, they have barely fifty men. Once we find the trail they left from the wagons, we shall follow it until we reach their lair, and then massacre them. Questions?’

As he had expected, Jennar was the first to speak up. ‘Sir, what about the town? We don’t want to leave it undefended. And we have no way of arming the militia now.’

‘How many men have we got for the independent company?’

Jennar coughed. ‘We had more than eighty militia and young men come along, but after all the incidents in the town, that’s down to about a dozen.’

Havrick ground his teeth. ‘Then we shall leave one of your companies behind to hold the town.’

‘But, sir, wouldn’t it be better to leave one of the cavalry companies? It will leave the force light in infantry if one-third of my men remain behind.’

Havrick laughed. ‘Who needs infantry? We shall ride in and smash them. Any other questions?’

‘Food, sir. And supplies. We don’t have enough to stay out for very long.’

Havrick had had just about enough of this questioning. ‘Then we take what we need. Rip this place apart and find me every scrap of oats and hay, every barrel of dried meat and every sack of salt. Now go!’

Havrick watched them file out and knew they would be talking about him. They always talked about him. No matter. He just needed enough supplies for a few days, just long enough to find and crush Martil. Then they could all starve, for all he cared. Meanwhile, he had his own preparations to make. He summoned a serving girl and ordered her to bring him wine. He would have at least one more fine night before it was off to sleep in fields and eat salt beef.

But for the rest of the town, it was not a good night. Merchants protested in vain as their wagons and food were commandeered. And not just food. The soldiers took anything that interested them, and used the opportunity to loot some stores that sold nothing useful for a campaign but plenty of things that were valuable. The light cavalry were particularly brutal. The deaths of their comrades had put them in an ugly mood. They smashed down doors, broke into warehouses, took beer, wine and women and left anyone who questioned them lying in a pool of blood.

The sound of the violence and the screaming drifted through the night air. Havrick left the sobbing servant girl to collect her clothes as he wandered out onto the balcony. He wanted to enjoy this last night of luxury but it was spoiled by the knowledge it was time to earn his promotion. Part of him longed for the chance to show how clever he was, to prove everyone wrong. But he could also feel the weight of the responsibility. All his life people had been telling him he was not good enough. His parents, his teachers and his officers—all had said the same thing. He feared he would prove them right.

The ambush site was easy to find. The charred wagons still smouldered, and the bodies of dead horses were still piled by the side of the road, stinking in the sun. Dried blood and broken arrows showed where the escort’s futile charge had been slaughtered.

He only had two scouts at his disposal—barely a handful of rangers were considered trustworthy enough to be allowed out of their barracks—but looking at the wide trail left by the wagons, he was confident even he could follow it. Around him the men were silent and surly; a night of too much drink, plenty of work and little sleep, followed by a dawn march, did not give them much to be happy about. Havrick had a full company of light cavalry patrolling around them in all directions—after what had happened here, he was determined not to be caught again.

This was his big chance. The third son of a decorated army officer, who had been celebrated at court for fighting goblins, he had been ridiculed by his father for not being able to understand military strategy, or being able to use a sword more than competently. But while his brothers ultimately decided not to join the army—one was a horse breeder, the other a ship’s captain—he had joined up to prove them wrong. He had bought his commission but had been unable to advance particularly far—until now. This was his opportunity to show his brothers and father that they had been wrong. And he was not going to let his men’s intransigence slow his march to glory.

His infantry had consisted of one company of pikemen and two of swordsmen. The pikemen were used to protect archers, break up cavalry attacks and to break an enemy line. However, the weight of their massive weapons made marching difficult, so he had left that company behind to watch the town of Sendric. But even the swordsmen were struggling to keep up with his cavalry, marching in their hauberks, coats of tightly-meshed chain mail.

To try and speed things up, he ordered them to leave shields and armour behind with the supply wagons they had scrounged and stolen from the town, while leaving another company of light cavalry to guard their supplies. This meant the march was quicker although still not fast enough for his liking. The trail was wide and obvious and the rebels close to destruction.

Then it all started to go wrong.

The trail disappeared into woods, which had to be impossible. Wagons could not crash their way through bushes and squeeze past trees without leaving some evidence of their passing. But, apparently, they had. Havrick sent his scouts and a company of swordsmen in to try and find the trail, while he bit his nails in frustration. They returned—but the news they returned with made no sense. Havrick, Jennar and most of his officers followed them in, marching five miles through rough wood country until they came across the wagons, emptied of almost all their supplies and sitting quietly in a clearing, with no apparent evidence of how they had got there and, worse, no trail to suggest where the rebels had gone.

‘It’s a mystery to me, sir,’ the lead scout admitted.

‘How did they do this?’ Havrick raged, his hopes of an easy victory thwarted.

‘Must be magic, sir. Because there’s no earthly way a man could get in or out of here without leaving a trace,’ the scout declared.

‘Barrett. The Queen’s Magician. He must have done this,’ Jennar said.

Havrick stared at Jennar with loathing. Did the man think he was in charge or something? Well, he would soon put him in his place. ‘Perhaps we should fight magic with magic. Were there any magicians in Sendric that we can use?’

Jennar sighed. ‘A town like Sendric can only support a couple of wizards. There’s not enough people who can afford to pay for magic. There’s an old man who’s long past it and a young bloke who’s only been here for a year or so…’

‘Well, get them. Any magic is better than none. See to it.’

‘But, sir, those two would be mad to go up against someone like Barrett. It’s almost a death sentence for them.’

Havrick stared at him coldly. ‘And why is that a concern of mine?’ He decided it was time to show Jennar who was really the leader. ‘I want a cavalry patrol to go back to town and bring me any wizards you can find. There will be no excuses. Quickly!’

‘And what if they can’t help us anyway, sir?’ Jennar asked.

Havrick smiled wolfishly. ‘The rebels have made a mistake, thinking that we would give up here. But we shall use this as our starting point. They must have gone either north or east of here, deeper into the woods. So we shall split the two companies of infantry into groups of twenty and you shall all start searching, each taking a slightly different route, until you find their camp.’

Jennar stared at him, appalled. ‘Sir, you’re talking about a massive area! These woods go on up to the mountains—two hundred men won’t be able to search all that! After a day or so, we’ll be so far away from each other that they could wipe out each group and the ones to either side would not even hear it.’

‘Horns. Each group has a trumpeter. As soon as you are attacked, sound the horn, and the other groups will converge on you. They will only attack when you are getting near to their camp, so we shall use you as bait.’

He watched in satisfaction as Jennar blanched at his words.

‘Sir, I must protest! I could lose half my men in there!’

‘Any sacrifice is worth it, to find the Dragon Sword and the Queen,’ Havrick told him with relish. ‘Now, organise your men. I want you searching before the day is out. Or you can refuse, and I’ll have you sent back in chains for the Duke to rule on your treasonous behaviour.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Jennar saluted impeccably. ‘What about supplies? If we are to stay in the field, we shall need supplies each day.’

Havrick thought about this one. ‘Use this area as your base camp. I’ll clear a trail to here and then you can use a company of light cavalry to help carry supplies further in.’

‘And if we get too far away to carry supplies in each day?’

‘Then we move your camp. Now hurry, Lieutenant, time is wasting!’

Havrick stalked back out of the woods, along with his cavalry officers, so he could start the men felling trees and clearing bushes. He expected to lose a few groups of infantry but once he knew where the camp was, he could send his cavalry in after them. But he had no intention of letting Jennar receive any credit after the officer’s reluctance to sacrifice himself and his men for victory. Besides, once the wizards got here, they might be able to follow a magical trail all the way back to Barrett. He congratulated himself on his own brilliance.

It was the birds who brought word of the advance first. Once Barrett had heard of the search, he sent dozens of birds out to look at what was happening, helped by Karia. It meant they were swiftly able to get a clear picture of what they were facing. Merren called a war council and they pored over a map of the area.

‘We should find a good defensive spot and then smash them. Between the Dragon Sword and the wizard, they will not stand a chance against us,’ Rocus declared.

‘We’ll be slaughtered!’ Wime said succintly.

‘We could just cut and run. Let them find our hideout after we’ve gone,’ Tarik offered.

‘March around with all the weapons we’ve stolen? With women and kids?’ Conal groaned.

Merren cut through the talk. ‘Captain, what is your plan?’

‘We must lead them away from here. These tactics are unusual. Most commanders are not so eager to sacrifice their men like this. If we attack the group that is closest to us, then they will send all the other groups swarming around until they find us. Well, we shall attack the one furthest away, to draw them away from us. We do that a few times, and soon they’ll just be searching the woods miles from here.’

‘This will mean some hard marching,’ Rocus said mournfully, looking at the map.

Barrett shifted in his seat. ‘I think you’ll find that, thanks to me, we’ll be able to make it more of an easy walk,’ he told them smugly.

Martil felt a flicker of irritation that the wizard had jumped in without being asked, but he quelled it.

‘Get your men fed and rested.’

The three officers left, but Merren held the others back.

‘There was more news,’ she said quietly. ‘Sendric?’

‘It seems that Havrick’s retribution for the attack on his convoy was to let his men loose on the town. I’ll be travelling back there to check on what happened. If what we heard was correct, there were many evil deeds committed last night,’ Sendric declared.

Martil smiled. ‘We should look on it with gratitude. At this rate, Gello will be doing our work for us, by turning the country against himself.’

Merren nodded. ‘I had hoped men would be rallying to us by now. But we will take recruits however we can get them.’

Martil spent the rest of the day playing with Karia, who not only loved ball and card games but wanted him to walk through the woods with her, so she could show him what she had learnt. Despite himself, Martil had to admit she was becoming very good. Wolves were happy to come up and have their tummies rubbed, small wild strawberries were able to bloom and supply fruit when they should be dying back, and she could bring the birds down out of the trees to talk to her.

‘Can I come with you?’ she asked, predictably, as they walked back. ‘I could help. You’ve seen how good I’m getting.’

Martil froze at the thought.

‘It’s too dangerous,’ he sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose I can look after Merren for you. She needs my advice.’

‘She needs your advice? What have you been telling her?’ Martil asked cautiously.

‘Oh, just how I manage to get you and Barrett to do nice things for me,’ she said, waving at a small plant until it flowered, allowing her to pick three pink, sweet-smelling blooms.

Martil groaned inwardly. That was all he needed. A pack of Berellian axemen would probably be easier to handle than those two working together.

16

Martil led the men out the next morning. He had been a little nervous to see Karia and Merren wave him goodbye, standing hand in hand. Still, it was a good feeling as well. He could almost imagine he was just off for a day’s hunting. But his mood was swiftly spoiled by the men.

Rocus was complaining that his guards had been forced to leave their mail armour behind, and that they were each carrying a spare arrow sheaf for the archers. But Martil had been definite about both. The mail was too heavy for forced marches and the archers would be key to victory in any ambush. Making sure they had enough arrows was vital.

Tarik and his hunters were sulking.

‘The wizard takes all the skill out of things,’ Tarik had grumbled to Martil. ‘A man spends forty years learning how to move through woods unseen, how to track and how to tell direction, then along comes a wizard and makes it as easy as walking along a city street!’

As for Barrett, he wanted to play a bigger part in the ambush.

‘I think I showed you how valuable I could be in a fight. Few could possibly stand against me,’ he told Martil. ‘Moving through the forest, talking to the birds, these are things that take but little energy.’

‘After all that magic use, can you still use that trick of yours to jump us from tree to tree, so we can disappear in one place and appear miles away?’

‘Probably,’ Barrett hedged. ‘Anyway, it is not a trick, it is an incredibly difficult piece of magic…’

‘This is why I can’t take the risk of you becoming tired. Any of us can kill Havrick’s soldiers. You are the only one who can do magic.’

Barrett accepted this, although he was clearly not happy. Martil could not wait for the fighting to start. At least then, everybody would forget about their complaints.

Jennar looked at the slaughtered remains of his men and swore softly. He did not know who to hate more: the men who had done this or the man really responsible, Havrick. The news one of his groups had been wiped out had reached him only slowly. Then it took him time to concentrate his groups around the site of the attack, out on his right flank.

‘They had archers up there, then a force of swordsmen took the remaining men in the flank,’ one of the scouts reported. ‘They didn’t stand a chance.’

‘Your orders, sir?’ one of his junior lieutenants asked.

‘Same as before. But we must create a new search pattern, based on this attack, as it must have been the group closest to their camp.’

‘What if that’s what they want us to think?’ an old sergeant asked.

Jennar smiled at the man, a tough veteran called Gillen.

‘I might be tempted to agree with you, but then that would mean we should search in the opposite direction. A man could go crazy doing that. Now let’s begin the search again, but try and stay close to your next group. And be prepared for an ambush at any moment.’ Jennar knew he was ensuring slow progress—and that would infuriate Havrick—but he could not force his men to march to their deaths.

Martil had sent four of the guardsmen back, laden with captured swords. He did not need them to ambush twenty men. The first attack had been almost too easy—the hardest thing had been keeping the trumpeter alive long enough to find out what calls they were using. He reckoned one more attack, again at the group at the very end of their line, which was far to the east of their camp, should be enough to ensure their search pattern would miss the caves by several miles. This second attack would be more difficult. The soldiers would be alert. But he had Barrett, who was able to provide him with an accurate picture of where the groups were. If he could just get him to concentrate on the task at hand.

‘I know you did not want me to fight, but I think you should try not to fight, either,’ the wizard said quietly.

‘What do you mean?’ Martil bristled instantly.

‘The Dragon Sword is not winning men over to our side. It should be. Perhaps if you stop killing, then it might start working. We need you to be a good man.’

‘Well, you know what they say, a good man is made by a good woman,’ Martil told him, hoping that would make him shut up.

Barrett rounded on him angrily, although he kept his voice low.

‘Do not even joke about that!’

‘Feeling worried?’ Martil asked, amused and a little pleased he had got through to the arrogant wizard.

‘Aye—for our cause. Did you ever think what would happen if you make her reject you? Would you stay then? Would you fight for her if she told you that you could never be more than her Champion?’

‘Who says she’ll reject me?’ Martil challenged.

‘She has to,’ Barrett said coldly. ‘The welfare of her people must come before herself. Don’t you understand what is at stake here?’

Martil looked hard at the wizard. ‘Of course I do. I’m the one that’s going to die if we don’t win, right? But what about you? Won’t you just go off somewhere and earn a pile of gold with your magic?’

Barrett’s jaw tightened. ‘If I wanted to do that, do you think I would be sleeping in a cave, and running around after a bunch of sweaty, stupid soldiers, led by a sheep-shagging Ralloran with an over-inflated idea of his own ability?’

At another time, Martil would have exploded. But fighting Havrick’s men had drained him of anger. Besides, he was in a similar position to the wizard. ‘I tell you what. I promise to use every bit of your magic power that I can to make sure we win. Agreed?’

Barrett was suspicious of the friendlier Martil. The warrior was up to something. No matter, he was sure he could outsmart him. ‘Agreed.’

Once more Martil gathered the squad leaders around.

‘Tarik, I want you to take your best two archers with you, and strike this group here,’ Martil indicated the group three in from the end of the line. ‘Pick off their scouts, then fade into the forest before they realise how many of you there are. They’ll react by blowing the warning horn. When we hear that, we’ll strike the end group here.’

‘How will we know when to attack?’ Tarik asked.

‘Barrett will send a bird as a messenger,’ Martil gestured towards the wizard.

‘Expect to see an owl arrive, and fly down onto your shoulder. As soon as that happens, you know to attack.’ Barrett gestured, and an owl flew down to join him. ‘This one.’

Tarik looked over to where the bird sat on Barrett’s shoulder, unblinking.

‘I’ve heard of using bird calls to signal an attack before, but this is ridiculous,’ he muttered.

The others laughed, and Martil had to join in as well. Men who could laugh before a fight were ready for battle. The trick was to ensure those easy victories continued.

‘Fools! Scum! Worms!’ Havrick raged at the impassive Jennar and his remaining sergeants and officers. ‘You outnumber them four to one and you let them kill nearly half a company! Two searching parties destroyed now! And we still don’t know where the camp is!’

‘We just followed your plan, sir,’ Jennar said stolidly. ‘We are acting as bait and trying to get closer to their camp. They have just been able to take bites out of us.’

‘Very amusing! Perhaps I should send you back to the Duke and you can entertain him with your comments?’ Havrick stepped close to Jennar, so he could smell the sweat and leaf mould on the man’s clothes. ‘I know your game. You seek to discredit me with the Duke. You want my captaincy. You are jealous of me!’

Jennar looked at him blankly but Havrick was in full cry.

‘Tomorrow you search again, and to the right. Only this time we search in groups of fifty. No more will they be able to kill our men so easily. My light horse will help you.’

‘Sir, if we are in groups of fifty, we shall be able to cover only a small amount of ground,’ Jennar warned. ‘It will take us many more days.’

‘Then the heavy cavalry will forage for supplies. These hills are filled with farms.’

Merren’s childhood had been one of study and work. Her father had refused to have much to do with her, beyond pushing for her to learn her lessons well. One of her nurses told her it was because she looked too much like his beloved dead wife, her mother. The result of this was the lack of anything resembling a normal childhood. Every moment of her day was carefully timetabled, so nothing was wasted. She could listen to music, or learn to dance—but only so far as these activities related to her duties. Spare time was something that did not exist. She worked, she ate and she slept. And then, as the Queen-in-waiting, it got even worse. The throne was too great a responsibility to be diverted by anything frivolous. Looking back now, she could see the irony that many of her male predecessors had deemed such activities as drinking, whoring and hunting as vital to the crown, and devoted much of their time to mastering these.

So when Karia announced she wanted to play dolls, she was unsure what to do. Her first inclination had been to make some excuse. But her only alternative was to go through tally scrolls or look at maps, or worry about what was happening out in the woods or back in Norstalos City. So, she reasoned, how hard could it be?

A few minutes later, she was regretting that attitude. Karia wanted her to be the voices of at least three dolls, and was quick to criticise when Merren forgot which one was which, or used the wrong accent. It was also a game that made her feel wistful. She was supposed to be the handsome prince and the princess, as well as a maid, while Karia’s doll was the queen.

‘The beautiful princess always marries a handsome prince, and they live happily ever after,’ Karia explained the basic saga storyline. ‘Of course she can be a princess in disguise, and he can be a prince in disguise, but even if they think they are only servants, they’re secretly royalty. And even if they’ve been promised to someone else, they end up with each other, because they’re the handsomest and beautifullest people in the land.’

Merren had to struggle not to say something. In her experience of history, the princess often ended up with whoever the king decreed was the best prospect, or had to marry a fool who was more in love with his own mirror. So she began to change the game, making the prince act like an idiot and have the princess rule by herself.

‘That’s funny,’ Karia giggled, as Merren made the prince doll put on a dress and pretend he was beautiful. ‘That prince is silly. We won’t make him the hero. The princess can marry her champion, instead.’

Merren looked carefully at Karia. True, this was a standard saga plot but it was a little close for comfort.

All her life she had been considered a prize by men. From the first time she had been officially welcomed to court she had been seen as a ticket to riches. Men had tried to impress her, to catch her eye and, after Gello’s disgrace, tell her why they should be King. Telling endlessly boring stories about themselves. She was heartily sick of it. To them, she was either a crown, or a breeding device. Or both. Then there was the whole issue with Lahra. Knowing there was a woman who looked like her being so foully treated by many of her nobles made her skin crawl. Just talking to some of them was difficult enough. She could not help but wonder what was going on inside their minds, what filth they were imagining while they spoke to her.

Martil was different. For a start he was not trying to impress her with his stories. Most importantly, she felt he was attracted to her, rather than the crown she wore. The sort of man who could look after a small girl was rare—and the warrior who would look after a child was rarer still. She found it hard to reconcile this side of him with the stories of Bellic; men, women and children all killed. Although it did make him more interesting. The combination of danger and shelter. She was confident she could encourage his softer side, but it would have to be played carefully. After all, there was still the problem of the succession. She had to marry a noble. Perhaps she could use Karia’s techniques on them. They all wanted a chance at Prince Consort. It was just a matter of playing them off against each other. In the meantime, she could relax and enjoy playing with Karia. In some ways, she could see why it had helped Martil. It gave her a chance to just be herself and not have to worry about being a ruler—or imagine what might be happening out in the woods.

Martil had to admit that, while wizards had proved mostly useless in the southern wars, Barrett was proving invaluable in this campaign. He had been up with the birds, literally, and had soon been able to report that Havrick had changed his plans: large parties of armed men were now scouring the woods in the wrong direction, while much smaller parties of cavalry were heading out with wagons towards the many farms in the district. Barrett’s magical technique for travelling vast distances was also of use. They could not travel far, because keeping the gateway open long enough to allow so many to get through was a massive task. But he was still able to help them step into a tree on one side of the searchers, and emerge a few miles away, in a stand of trees near a small valley that was about to be visited by Havrick’s men.

Martil and the others had arrived in time to lure the cavalry into a reckless charge that Tarik’s archers had shattered—but not in time to stop the troopers killing several farmers.

A dozen of the troopers were still alive, although all were wounded, either by arrows or in falls from their horses. Rocus had his men drag them clear of the horses and then dragged the armour and helms off the men, even the wounded. They might have been tempted to let the wounded keep their armour, for ripping a mail hauberk off a man with a broken arm or shoulder was not an easy thing to do. But the sight of the murdered farmers removed their sympathy.

‘They should never have tried to charge us,’ Rocus said.

‘No. But then cavalry are not very bright. The horses have all the brains,’ Martil grinned. ‘Good to see you are learning, Lieutenant.’

He was distracted from the tally by Wime, who returned with the remaining farmers and their families. ‘Captain, I think you need to talk to them,’ the militiaman said.

‘The wagons?’ Martil ignored the suggestion for the moment.

‘My men are just moving them closer together so they’ll burn better. The wagoners have all fled,’ Wime reported. ‘Those bastards had the women and girls in the wagons already.’

‘Aye, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about,’ the oldest farmer said.

Martil looked at the group. It was several families, with plenty of children. The older girls and the younger wives were being comforted by the others.

‘I am Captain Martil, and I serve Queen Merren. What do you want?’

‘Firstly, to thank you for saving us from these bastards. They just rode in and told us they were soldiers of Duke Gello, then they took the women and our animals! Are you going to stay here and protect us now?’

This was what Martil had been afraid of. ‘We cannot. There are far more of them, and if they knew we were here, they would bring hundreds of men and destroy this valley.’

‘That was what we thought. And I suppose they’ll be back?’

‘They will,’ Martil admitted. It was just too rich a target.

‘Then we want to come with you.’

‘We want to fight!’ a young man in his early twenties declared angrily.

Martil almost had to struggle to keep the smile from his face. It was as he had predicted. Revenge was a powerful motivator.

‘Who are you?’ Martil looked at the young farmer. He had broad shoulders and brown hair, and a friendly-looking face that was now twisted with anger and grief.

‘Sirron. They killed my father and uncles. Me and my brothers want revenge.’

Barrett stepped up beside Martil. ‘This is perfect. Recruits for our cause,’ he whispered.

‘And the Dragon Sword had nothing to do with it. It’s all the work of Havrick,’ Martil muttered back, although he surreptitiously checked the hilt, just in case. Then he turned back to the farmers.

‘You are welcome to come back with us. How many want to fight?’

The older farmers were too old to fight but between them they had eight sons aged from their early twenties to their mid-teens, all strengthened by farm work and just in need of some training.

‘You’ll serve with Lieutenant Wime and his men. Wime, make sure you assign a couple of your sergeants to watch them. I want them back here with clothes and livestock, and those wagons burned as fast as possible.’

As they hurried off to collect their possessions, Martil turned to Barrett. Since their conversation in the forest, they had been able to work together without arguing, pleasing Merren no end. Now he would put that cautious friendship to the test.

‘I have a few questions for you. Can you keep the gateway open long enough to get goats and some cattle through?’

‘As long as each is held by a person touching my staff. We cannot just drive them through; who knows where they would end up, or what would happen to them. We are talking about a difficult and demanding piece of magic here…’

‘Yes, yes, I know your powers are unbelievable. Can you do it?’

Barrett gritted his teeth. ‘One day you will learn the incredible amount of work and study that has gone into my helping you. Then you might appreciate it when I say yes. What else?’

‘We cannot tell the Queen what happened out here. If she knows that Havrick’s men are leaving on a raping and pillaging mission each morning, what do you think her reaction will be?’

‘She’ll want us to stop them.’

‘Aye. And when we do, we’ll stop the flow of recruits. We need to use Havrick to get the countryside ready to rise in anger. This is what we have been waiting for! All the time we have been worried the people have become too timid, that they are not ready to rise up and join the Queen’s cause. Well, they will have no choice if Havrick sets his men loose on them! But if we stop Havrick too soon, we’ll be back to where we started.’

Barrett stared at him, appalled. ‘So you want men to be killed, farms burned and women raped?’

‘No, but I’m not giving those orders. Havrick is. I just need to take advantage of it. So can you keep your tongue under control?’

Barrett shook his head. ‘This is not the action of a Dragon Sword wielder,’ he said finally.

‘This is what we need to do to win,’ Martil countered.

‘I’ll think about it,’ was all Barrett would say.

‘Take as long as you want. Every day we leave them will bring us more recruits.’ Martil turned away from the wizard. Victory was all that mattered. The complacent Norstalines would be shocked out of their passivity by Havrick’s brutality and then he would have plenty of recruits. Why, then, did he feel so guilty?

Conal had been nervous about working with Count Sendric at first. After all, Queen Merren had told him the man was a noble of the old school, who rarely talked to peasants. But after the first few days, when the only times they had spoken were for Sendric to give orders, the Count had gradually thawed. Part of this was due to the efficient way Conal carried out those orders but the ex-bandit felt his ability to deflect the Queen’s anger and frustration during council meetings had been the real turning point. Sendric had, of course, seen the Queen in action for years in the Royal Council. Anyone who could deal with her so effectively automatically won his respect, even if he was a former bandit. Although that part of Conal’s life was slowly fading from his memory. It was strange. His memories of his years in the militia, which had seemed so hazy when he was living under Danir in Thest, were crystal clear now. Instead it was the things he had done and said as a bandit that were like mist. They seemed more like a tale from a saga than something that had happened to him. Since Martil had walked into his inn, his life had dramatically changed for the better—apart from the whole tankard-of-urine incident, of course. Feeling like a man again was a treasure beyond price. It took an effort to force his mind away from these thoughts and onto what the Count was saying. It seemed the old noble was reevaluating his life, his standards and the things he had lived by. The mutilation and death of his daughter had opened his eyes to reality.

‘I regret it now, of course, but I did not make things easy for the Queen,’ the Count admitted.

The pair of them were walking back down the tunnel into the town. Naturally they did not want to come up in either the stables or the keep itself but the Count intended to use the third exit from the tunnel, into the cellars of Rocus’s old house. The walk was a long one, and it was inevitable they talked to pass the time.

‘I had to be careful. After all, my daughter was her chief lady-in-waiting, while my dislike of Duke Gello and his scheming mother, Ivene, had gone back years. If I wanted to obtain a fair share of taxes for my district, I had to make deals with other nobles, which usually meant Gello’s supporters, such as Cessor and Worick. If I had just supported the Queen, and opposed what Gello wanted, my town would have suffered. Naturally I did not think Gello would go so far as to steal the Dragon Sword! I just thought he wanted to get his hands on as much power as possible, then ensure his son was named the next King. But she did not make things easy, either. She has a terrible tongue on her, does our Queen. You don’t want to cross her in the Royal Council!’

Conal muttered agreement. He was tempted to point out that by only doing what was best for himself, rather than what was best for his country, the Count had brought his troubles upon himself. But he was getting on well with Sendric now, and did not want to spoil that by highlighting inconvenient truths.

‘And the other nobles?’ he merely asked.

‘Obviously Gello’s men knew what was going on all the time, they were well organised and came into each meeting with a strategy for dividing the opposition and winning the vote. I mean, such a thing had never been done before!’

Conal had to bite his tongue and change the subject before he said something he would regret. ‘So who will we be meeting in Sendric?’ the old bandit asked.

‘First, we’ll make contact with Gratt. Then we shall talk to the town council. They’ll be able to tell us what the merchants and shopkeepers think.’

Conal was thankful the tunnel was dark, so he could roll his eyes, safe in the knowledge he would not be seen. The Count may be changing but there were some aspects of the old ways he held to.

‘And I can perhaps get a feel for how the ordinary people are thinking,’ he offered.

Sendric paused for a moment. ‘That is a good idea,’ he said, with some surprise.

17

Havrick stared at the map in mounting rage and frustration. How could they have slipped past his forces to strike at that forage party? Now he was running short of food. Some of the officers were talking about going on to half rations, although he was damned if he was going to go without because of the incompetence of others.

He refused to look up, to where Jennar and the other officers waited. A full day of searching through the woods had found nothing, although they had admittedly covered little ground because the large companies of men were finding it hard to move through the trees. Worse, today it was raining, a constant drizzle that slowed everything and dampened morale.

A squad had returned from the town with a slight ray of hope—a pair of protesting wizards, a young man with a long moustache and an old man with a patchy white beard. Neither inspired much confidence but they were better than nothing. This damned wizard Barrett was causing him no end of trouble.

‘We continue as before,’ Havrick declared. ‘Each supply party will now have fifty heavy cavalry as the escort. The local people must be helping them somehow. We must show them how foolish it is not to obey the orders of Duke Gello. Anyone you suspect of helping our foes, burn their farms and take everything they have. That will soon stop the flow of supplies to the enemy.’

‘And to us, sir. There are many farms in this district, but they are well spread out. Soon we will be looking at forage parties having to stay out overnight, as they will not be able to return before nightfall. And, with respect, sir, burning out farms is not going to win us friends here. It will only make our task more difficult.’ Jennar felt he had to speak up. He had been disgusted by what had happened back at the town and had no desire to see it repeated across the countryside.

But Havrick just glowered at Jennar.

‘We are not here to make friends, Lieutenant. We are here to destroy a band of rebels. As long as we accomplish that task, nothing else matters. This area is obviously a hotbed of rebellion. We must show them the consequences. Meanwhile, we must redouble our efforts in searching. They cannot be far away now. Two of your groups will have wizards with them, to help guide and ease their progress.’ He gestured to where his men guarded the pair.

‘Sir, I must protest! We cannot provide the sort of help you require! You cannot expect us to go against a mage like Barrett!’ The older wizard leaned on his heavily-decorated staff and clutched his long orange robes closer around him. His younger companion nodded in agreement.

Havrick ignored that. ‘Jennar, if they refuse to help you, then flog them. A touch of the whip should be enough to persuade them where their duty lies.’

Martil had quickly persuaded Merren that they needed time to train up their new recruits. He made sure he did this while Barrett slept, exhausted from the effort of working magic. He had proved able to hold open a gateway long enough for the men, the farmers, a dozen cattle and two score goats to go through, but it had been hard work for him. Martil had stood beside him, urging people to hurry, but keep hold of the wizard’s oaken staff if they did not want to end their days embedded in a tree. Then Barrett had to clear an area so the livestock could have somewhere to graze.

Despite their talk, Martil did not trust Barrett to refrain from blurting out that Havrick’s men were rampaging through the countryside. He needed time for the countryside to get angry and want to rise up against Havrick. He needed a good reason to keep Barrett away from Merren—and Count Sendric had provided a perfect one, sending back a message from town, carried by one of Barrett’s birds.

The wizard had provided Sendric and Conal with half a dozen small birds that would fly straight to him when released from their cage. And the message this one brought was important—that Havrick had dragged the area’s only two wizards out to the woods to help his search. This was a serious danger to their plan to keep Havrick searching in the wrong direction. Just as Barrett was using the local wildlife as scouts, those wizards could also utilise the birds and the animals to take the search in the right direction. The easiest solution would be to kill the wizards but Merren did not want them to suffer on Havrick’s behalf.

So, as soon as he woke, Barrett was sent out into the woods, with Tarik and his men to support him, with orders to stop the wizards and buy the recruits enough time to be trained.

The ploy was simple—hunters sent a few volleys of shafts as the companies of soldiers blundered through the trees, killing and wounding a handful, then faded away once more. It was an effective brake on progress.

Then Barrett was able to concentrate on the groups with the wizards. Thanks to his magic, they were unable to summon so much as a sparrow to help their search, while their efforts to make the woods easier to march through saw Barrett reply by making things grow faster, to the point where it became impenetrable, right where the soldiers were looking.

It worked perfectly. When soldiers weren’t exhausting themselves trying to hack through immensely thick undergrowth, they were diving for cover as a hail of arrows flew in. Being sent out front as a scout became a death sentence for the soldiers.

Meanwhile, Havrick was discovering that wizards were not the answer to all his problems. Trying—and failing—to achieve much with magic still exhausted them, and searching time was cut down considerably. The older mage had to be carried around by four sweating soldiers in a rough sedan chair. Then they were always demanding food to replenish their energy, consuming twice what the average trooper could live on. Havrick’s demands for faster progress were constantly being met with Jennar’s reply that they had to stop and wait for the wizards to catch up. It was becoming a struggle for Havrick to keep his temper.

Without Barrett, Karia became their source of information, and Martil made sure she concentrated only on what was happening in the woods.

Meanwhile he had the time to work not just on Sirron and his farm boys, but also on the other men. They had performed well from ambush and had stood their ground as the archers destroyed a small band of cavalry but Martil knew the next time they fought, it would be against a full squadron of cavalry, enough men so it would come down to a stand-up fight.

The men were ordered to wear hauberks. Some were second-hand, most of these had arrow holes in them, crudely patched, while the guardsmen’s ones looked impeccable. Martil could see how the farm boys were struggling in the heavy coats. While a hauberk did not restrict movement initially, the weight grew progressively heavier. Even the fittest of men would tire swiftly fighting in one. Then he made them take up shields and spears. Every man was unfamiliar with these but Martil knew this was the weaponry that would keep them alive when fighting cavalry.

He drilled them hard, teaching them the basics of spear fighting, keeping them at it until their right arms were too tired to even lift the heavy spears any more and they were heartily sick of practising the same strokes: up at a cavalryman, down at an infantryman, and the thrust from the second row of a shield wall into the enemy’s front line. He fretted that the training was nowhere near enough but knew he did not have much time so, as quickly as he dared, he took them to the next stage.

‘A shield wall only succeeds while the men in it have courage and heart,’ Martil told them. ‘But if you do not have trust in each other, if you fear for your own safety, it will crack like an egg. Stay together and live. Try to run and you die. Understand?’

He formed them into three ranks, the guardsmen at the front and sides, the farm boys at the back and the militia in the middle. The guardsmen dropped to one knee, shields rammed into the ground, spears pointing upwards. The militia stood close behind them, shields held high to protect both themselves and the guardsmen, spears also held high. The farm boys were close behind them, bracing the militia and supporting the spears. He rode along the front of the wall then, showing them how no horse would charge home into a tightly packed wall of spears.

He took one of the captured heavy cavalry horses, a huge beast, and spurred it at the line. He knew that, to the men in the front row, it was a daunting sight. But even the trained warhorse would not press home the charge and veered away from the massed iron points.

‘A man on a horse needs four feet of room to ride and swing his sword. A man with a shield and spear needs only two feet! So each trooper is riding down a corridor that ends in three ranks of two spears—that’s six spears to each horseman!’

Then he formed them into a shield wall, and had men take turns standing in each row, as well as joining him in running at the shield wall and forcing it to stand firm to repel them. By the end of the day, the men were exhausted, but Martil felt they all had a better idea of what they would need to do. They were not ready to take on a rival shield wall, but he hoped they could stand up to one charge of cavalry.

Martil washed quickly in the cold stream and went to find Karia. He knew she had been playing with Merren and he thought he should give the Queen a break.

He arrived to find Merren working on Karia’s reading. He watched them for a while, as they were both absorbed in the simple sheet of parchment from which Karia was reading, and occasionally crossing out and correcting a word, with a little help from Merren. He listened to what was a story about a beautiful queen who kept having handsome princes arrive, wanting to marry her, but who ruled happily by herself, without silly men.

Karia was sounding out the words, helped by Merren, who looked up and smiled as Martil stepped into the warm cave.

‘I don’t think I know that saga,’ he smiled.

‘It’s one we wrote ourselves. It’s a game we have been playing, so we thought we’d write it down,’ Karia explained.

‘The plot sounds good,’ Martil agreed. ‘Do you want to go for a walk?’

‘Let’s all go for a walk!’ Karia jumped up.

‘Look, I don’t think the Queen…’ Martil began but Merren cut him off.

‘I need some fresh air,’ she said.

It was a strange walk. Karia gambolled along between them, using her magic to make them laugh. Fish jumped out of the stream to wave at them, animals came up to talk, and tell them nice spots to visit. Then she wanted to pick flowers, and made a bush grow them until there was enough for a bunch.

‘Perhaps you should give them to Merren, to thank her for looking after you,’ Martil suggested.

‘I think we look after each other,’ Merren smiled.

‘She’s helping me with my reading and writing. But I’m not that good yet. You’ll still have to read me stories,’ Karia declared.

Martil had to hold back a laugh. ‘I’ll be happy to,’ he said gravely.

Walking through the trees, away from the camp, gave him a strange feeling. He thought for a moment and realised it was peace. He could just enjoy a time when he did not have to worry about planning a battle, fighting, or waving the bloody Dragon Sword to win the war. He looked at the little girl and the Queen, who were going through the flowering bush to find the best blooms. They were both changing. The scared, dirty, moody little girl he had first met was gone, replaced by someone much happier; someone who was a joy to be around. Now, when he had to be elsewhere, he missed her. He knew he had changed, as well. The anger was still there—he guessed it would always be part of him—but around her it was buried deep. The Queen, too, seemed to be softening—certainly relaxing. He could not help but look at them together and feel it would not be too great a stretch of the imagination to see this as a family. It was a dream that could not come true but he told himself there was no harm in dreaming, surely?

Karia giggled as Merren tickled her with a flower. Sometimes she felt as though she never wanted to leave this place. When she had first seen it, she had not thought that—it just reminded her of the time she had spent with her da and brothers out in the woods. That seemed merely a bad dream now. It was as if it had happened to someone else. Here there was plenty of food and people gave her their attention and care. She loved playing with Merren, who talked to her as if she were a grown-up, and had even plaited her hair once. Barrett was rarely fun, but he was always kind, and learning magic was the most exciting thing she had ever done. Each day brought new enchantments. She felt—and saw—the world come alive around her. And then there was Martil. When she was with him, she felt safe. He was gentle and kind, answered her questions and gave her treats. He was like a big teddy bear. A hairy, smelly, often sweaty teddy bear but still a nice one.

Merren felt she had discovered a different side to herself these last few days with Karia. All her life she had been so conscious of how she was viewed by other people. The dignity of her position meant that having fun could never be acceptable. Fun, for her, was a state banquet, or perhaps learning a particularly difficult point of law. But with Karia, there was none of that fear. She could just relax and do what she liked. And being silly was fun. Saying silly things, doing silly things; it was just good to laugh and not have to worry about the other person’s ulterior motives. What this meant for her rule, and for what she would look for in her private life, she did not know. It was too early to say and, besides, she was apprehensive of thinking about that too much. It was enough to enjoy the time out here with Karia—and Martil. He was intriguing. She glanced up at him and saw the way he was looking at how she and Karia were playing. It was clear what he was thinking. There was that plan of hers to try and encourage his human side but the more time she spent with him, the more she was unsure how far to push it. It was one thing to plan what she was going to say—actually doing it was something else entirely. Worse, she was beginning to wonder what she did want. Convention—and the terms of the deal her father had made with Duchess Ivene—dictated that she make her marriage an affair of state, but now she wanted to rebel against everything her father—and her aunt—had laid out for her. She was going to be her own style of Queen and perhaps that included choosing who she wanted to be with. Karia was the one who broke the silence.

‘Here you are!’ She offered the flowers to Merren. ‘Thanks for helping me.’

‘You have been reading well,’ Merren told her. She had been surprised by the child’s rapid progress. Her memory was phenomenal and her grasp of the concepts amazingly swift.

‘Thanks, but I don’t want him to think I’m so good that he doesn’t have to read to me any more,’ Karia explained in a loud whisper.

Martil could not help but laugh. ‘I’ll read to you for as long as you want,’ he offered.

‘I’d love that!’ Karia jumped up and gave him a hug.

Martil felt he should say something to Karia, let her know how he felt. But he just couldn’t say it. He saw Merren watching them with a smile on her face, and knew it was a perfect time. But the words would not come. He was still struggling with them when Wime came crashing through the woods.

‘Your majesty, Captain Martil, Count Sendric is back,’ he exclaimed.

Martil had a sinking feeling as they hurried back to Merren’s meeting cave to see Conal and Sendric. Previously Sendric had used birds to send his reports back to the caves. The fact he had returned in person could not be good news.

He was not mistaken.

‘The town is in an uproar. For the past few days, there’s been a steady stream of farmers coming to town, telling everyone that Havrick’s men are burning farms, raping women, stealing livestock and killing anyone who stops them. Farmers are driving their stock into town to try and get away from the foraging parties. The town council fears there will be starvation this winter, as there will be too few farms left to support the district,’ Sendric announced.

‘We cannot allow this to continue,’ Merren declared, just as Martil had known she would. ‘Captain, what should we do?’

Martil sighed. This was what he had hoped for—but were his men ready for it? He would soon find out.

‘We need to recall Barrett, and Tarik’s archers. I need a clear picture of what they are doing, and where. Then we can decide what to do,’ he said carefully.

‘I can get Barrett!’ Karia said excitedly. ‘I’ll send a bird to him now!’

‘Thank you, Karia.’ Merren smiled at her, then the smile faded as she looked at Martil. ‘There is only one thing we can do. We must protect the farmers. And once they know we are fighting for them, they will join us. This could be what we have been waiting for.’

‘It will be risky. We could lose a score of men easily, or even be completely defeated,’ Martil warned.

Merren’s jaw tightened. ‘It is a risk we must take. I cannot take the throne if I do not protect the people. They must see we are different from Havrick and Gello.’

Martil nodded, already wondering if Barrett was going to ignore his pleas and betray him to Merren.

‘Your majesty, with your permission, Conal and I will travel back to Sendric and prepare the town. Havrick has left but a single company of pikemen, and they do little more than eat, drink and patrol the gates and castle. The town is ready to revolt. We just need to make the arrangements,’ Sendric said gravely. ‘With Conal as my go-between, I promise you I can have the town ready when you need to retake it.’

Merren smiled. ‘Then go with Aroaril.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?’ Martil asked Conal.

The old bandit grinned. ‘I’d be as much use as a one-armed man at a hand-clapping contest. No, this way I get to eat at inns every night and sleep in the best fleapits Sendric has to offer. And I feel I’m doing something to help. The Count is a good man with the priests and the town council but he doesn’t know how to talk to gutter scum the way I do.’

Sendric and Conal only stayed long enough to take a bag of gold to help encourage some of the waverers, and had left before Barrett and Tarik arrived back. The wizard looked tired, his clothes stained, and he wolfed into the stew the guardsmen had prepared. Tarik and his archers also looked tired, but nowhere near as bad.

‘We came as soon as we received your message. What news, your majesty?’ he asked, in between mouthfuls of bread.

‘First, what have you been achieving?’ Martil asked.

‘We’ve killed, I reckon, a score of men over the past few days, and wounded just as many. Used up plenty of arrows, but luckily we got that wagonload from Havrick,’ Tarik reported.

‘The wizards have done nothing. At first they were confused when they couldn’t get any animals to respond to them—now I get the feeling they are not even trying,’ Barrett said through a mouthful of food.

Merren nodded her approval.

‘You have done very well. But now we must change tactics. It seems Havrick has unleashed his foraging parties to rape, kill, steal and burn through the countryside. We must stop that.’

‘Indeed,’ Barrett agreed, with a quick look at Martil.

‘I need to know where he has already hit, and good targets and spots for an ambush,’ Martil said hastily.

‘When did you tell the Queen of this?’ Barrett asked. ‘I expected to be called back before now.’

The room went quiet and Martil wished Sendric and Conal had stayed just a little longer, so Barrett had heard it from them, rather than jumping to the wrong conclusion. Or perhaps it was the right conclusion. He would not put it past the wizard to make him look bad.

‘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!’

Martil 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.

Plenty of armour and swords had been collected, while six horses had been rounded up, five unhurt but shaken, the sixth with an arrow wound in its haunch that had bled copiously but did not seem to be causing a problem. Martil had the wounded troopers taken over to the stream, where they could at least get water, then the worst of his own wounded were put on the captured horses. Barrett had closed over their wounds, so they were able to move, but several had lost plenty of blood, and were rather weak. The two dead men were wrapped in blankets to be carried on the horses.

‘What are your orders, sir?’ Wime asked.

‘We shall retreat back to the farms behind us. There will be shelter and food, and in the morning, when Barrett has recovered, we shall leave,’ Martil said, trying to make it sound a natural decision.

‘And the enemy, sir?’ Tarik gestured behind him, to where the wagons were burning. ‘They’ll be drawn here by the smoke.’

Martil looked also. ‘Follow me.’

He led them over to where he could see at least two of the troopers were alert enough to watch and listen, and he told Wime, Rocus and Tarik loudly how their wizard was going to magic them away, so they would not be caught.

‘By this time tomorrow, we’ll be ambushing those fools in the woods,’ he declared loudly, then left the officers trying to keep a straight face, and went to see how Barrett was faring.

‘I feel better. Healing magic is best left to the priests,’ he shrugged.

Martil explained what they would be doing and the wizard immediately started arguing.

‘But what if they send more men to the farm tomorrow?’

‘Then we’ll give them another surprise.’

‘I hope you are right,’ Barrett warned.

‘If we’re not, you can laugh at my dead body,’ Martil assured him.

18

Perhaps predictably, the farmers started running as soon as the armed men marched into their fields. It took some fast talking from Martil—and Sirron—to persuade the farmers that this group of soldiers was there to help, not destroy. Then it took nearly as much effort to persuade them not to have a feast in their honour.

‘You have saved our farms!’ exclaimed the first farmer, a plump, white-bearded giant who introduced himself as Petar.

‘You will have our lasting gratitude,’ declared his neighbour Kell, who was a tall, lean man with an enormous nose.

Martil decided not to mention it was only until tomorrow.

‘It must appear as if we are not here,’ Martil told them.

So they were given space in Petar’s barn, with plenty of food and water.

Barrett ate his way through a huge chunk of ham and an even bigger hunk of cheese and a loaf of bread. Once sated, he made sure the wounded were comfortable, then found himself a quiet, hay-filled stall, away from the talking men. He had no wish to sit with them; he had never been comfortable in the company of warriors. Always boasting about what they could do, impressed more with a strong right arm than a clever mind. And always ready to mock him. He felt tired but he knew his body’s limitations; rest, more food and a good night’s sleep and he would be ready to do anything tomorrow. As long as the warriors did not start drinking and singing, Barrett thought sourly.

He was just relaxing when a motley group of men walked over. A couple of lightly-wounded guardsmen, militia, a few hunters and several of the farm boys.

‘What is it?’ Barrett growled, hoping they would leave him alone.

A hulking guardsman, with a previously broken nose and a thatch of black hair, cleared his throat nervously. ‘We’re just here to thank you, sir, after what you did.’

‘It was amazing, the way you made those horses go crazy! How did you do it, sir?’ a farm boy exclaimed.

Barrett stared up at them. They were all eagerly awaiting his answer, and he could see not a trace of mockery on their faces.

‘Do you really want to know?’ he asked.

‘Of course, sir! You’re a famous magician! We didn’t know exactly what you could do, but now we’ve seen you in action…I mean, it’ll be something to tell the grandkids, that one day I fought beside Barrett the Wizard,’ the farm boy called Sirron exclaimed.

‘Well don’t just stand there. Sit down,’ Barrett told them. ‘Make yourselves comfortable.’ Perhaps these warriors are not so bad after all, he thought.

Martil saw the group of men sitting around Barrett, listening to his every word, and smiled. The wizard was just learning how intoxicating the camaraderie of war could be. If you risked your life for a man, you created a bond that could not be broken. It was a powerful force indeed. But he did not have time to enjoy it—he was worried about Havrick’s reaction.

Thanks to Barrett, and his birds, they soon found out. A full company of heavy cavalry had arrived at the scene and was collecting the wounded. Martil made sure he kept his face impassive, although inside he could feel the tension rising. He had left a trail leading to the woods, then used Barrett’s failing strength to hide their real trail to the farm. Would it be enough?

It was a nervous wait back at the camp. Karia was able to use the birds to find out what had happened: the ambush had been successful but there were wounded and they were not coming back that night.

Merren reluctantly came to the conclusion that the families should be told—she did not want them asking her constantly when their men might come home. She also felt it was the right thing to do. But she was not sure how to go about it. Her father had spent plenty of gold on tutors who were happy to take the young princess through history, geography, law and economics. He had never spent any money, or any time, telling her how to speak to ordinary people. The closest he had come himself was the occasional proclamation.

‘That’s what the nobles are for,’ he had told her, on one of the rare occasions when they had spoken. Even when he had talked to her, all he had wanted to do was impart advice about the crown, she remembered bitterly.

‘The peasants complain to the town and village councils. The councils take what they think is important and send those complaints to the nobles, then they take what they think is important and bring those to my attention at the Royal Council. That’s the way it works best. You don’t want some smelly peasant in here, telling you about his missing cow! That’s not what ruling is all about!’

‘But how do you know what the people are thinking?’ she had asked.

The King had roared with laughter. ‘Why would you want to know what peasants are thinking? If it can’t be eaten or sold, they don’t want to know about it. Look, it’s not as if you need them. Keep the nobles happy and the peasants take care of themselves.’

Now she could see the unwitting irony in his words. The very thing she needed was the peasants, because the nobles had turned against her. But while she knew all about the nobles, she had no idea how to reach the peasants.

No, not peasants, they are people, she admonished herself. People with hopes and dreams. Karia had been born in a tiny village, Martil also; Barrett’s parents were wealthy merchants, but hardly noble. Yet these people, who her father, Ivene and Gello automatically despised, were the ones she trusted and relied on. If she was to win back her throne, she had to reach the ordinary people. Perhaps here was the place to start.

After all, she had learned to play with Karia—the pair of them had spent an enjoyable morning together—and she had discovered an aptitude for teaching. Karia was advancing incredibly fast as a reader and her writing was also taking shape. This was partly due to the sharpness of her mind but Merren modestly felt the quality of the teaching also had to have something to do with the child’s rapid progress.

If she could face a morning playing with Karia’s dolls, surely she could face a few women and children and explain to them what was happening.

Still, she felt her heart pounding and her stomach churning as she walked down to where the women and older children washed clothes or tended the livestock and fields, and watched over the young children as they played. She was tempted to turn back, wait for Sendric or someone to return, but then she felt Karia’s small hand in hers and, inexplicably, felt better.

‘Gather round please! Gather round!’ she called out, surprising herself a little at how strong her voice was.

Women and children dropped what they were doing and rushed over. Children protested at being made to leave their play, and there was plenty of confusion and noise before Merren had an expectant semi-circle around her.

‘The ambush has been successful,’ she began, and was interrupted by a series of exclamations of relief and cries of ‘Praise Aroaril!’.

‘However,’ she continued, and the excitement dropped away immediately, ‘there have been several wounded, some badly. They won’t be back until tomorrow.’

‘How many are wounded? How bad are they? Who are they?’ a woman called, and this was taken up by several others. A handful of younger children, not understanding what was going on, began to wail.

‘Please!’ Merren held up her hands. ‘These are questions I cannot answer. Obviously Captain Martil believes they can both stay hidden and spring another surprise on our enemies. We must trust him.’ She opened her mouth to say she was as worried as they were but one look at their faces told her that was not a sentiment that would go down well. Some of the women looked as though they were about to be sick.

‘Your loved ones are fighting and paying a price in blood to help me,’ she said, and felt a wave of emotion. These were not just numbers on a piece of parchment, or a symbol to be positioned on a map. In an instant, she had a vision that was as clear as it was unexpected. It felt as though a veil had been lifted from her eyes. These were real people, prepared to give their lives to put her back on the throne, when she had barely shown she was worth the effort. She bit back tears that welled up suddenly. ‘I swear to Aroaril that what you are doing will not be forgotten. Your men are fighting for me, and without their help my quest would be nothing. I fear for them, as I fear for my cause. But I can only guess how much fear you are feeling. I wish I could tell you more, give you a promise they will all come back safely, but I cannot lie to you. I can only promise you that I share your pain and distress and wish with all my heart it had never come to this. And if I get the chance to again sit on the throne, I will not let your sacrifices be in vain. I won’t govern the country for the benefit of the nobles. I’ll create a country where noble birth is no longer as important as what you can do. A country where even the poorest person can feel their Queen cares about them. But above all, where you will not be forgotten. I swear it!’

She stopped, suddenly feeling exhausted. The words had come pouring out her, as if a dam inside had been broken. She did not know if she would get the chance to put them into practice but she was determined not to forget them. More than anything, she wanted them to come true.

‘Merren,’ Karia said softly, holding out her hands, and she picked the little girl up and hugged her tight.

‘I’m sorry,’ Merren said aloud. She did not want to let out her feelings; her father had impressed upon her the need to stay remote but it was impossible to hold back. All the things she had repressed, the things she had been taught to keep hidden, had to come out. ‘I’m sorry I have to ask you to do this for me. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish they could all be back safe.’

And then she was sobbing, holding tight onto Karia. Karia was holding her tightly back, and patting her shoulder with a small hand.

‘It’s all right,’ she was saying, in a voice far older than her years.

Merren only became aware of the families clustered around her when she wiped her eyes and opened them again.

‘We’ll stand with you, my Queen,’ said one woman. Merren recognised her as Wime’s wife, Louise, who she had yelled at only a few days ago. Then, the woman’s eyes had glowed with anger and frustration. She expected them to be filled with contempt now. Instead, the woman was looking at her with a mixture of sympathy and admiration. ‘We will all stand with you. Together we can be strong. We don’t have to face this alone.’

Merren wiped her face and forced a smile.

‘I am sorry, I don’t know what you must think of me,’ she said automatically.

‘You don’t have to apologise, my Queen. We think more of you now than ever before. We’ve never had a ruler who cared about us,’ Louise said stoutly, and many of the other women around her nodded vigorously. ‘We never expected to see one, either.’ Louise hesitated, as though debating with herself, then smiled. ‘Would you care to join us for a cup of tea?’

Merren reflected that her father—and, indeed, most of the nobles—would have rather drunk their own vomit than take tea with ordinary people.

‘I think that I would,’ she smiled.

‘As long as there’s some biscuits,’ Karia added.

At the farm, Martil swung between hope and despair, thinking his plan had worked and then fearing he had led these men to disaster. When a bird finally arrived, he had to steel himself to wait for Barrett to report the news.

‘It worked! They believed us! They searched the woods and now they’re riding away with their dead and wounded!’ Barrett shouted and the barn exploded into cheers.

‘They wouldn’t want to stay too long, they’d want to get the wounded back to the surgeons,’ Martil said confidently, as if he had known that would happen all along. ‘Now we’ll see if they come back tomorrow. If they do, we’ll give them a surprise.’

‘Sir, we need to talk to Petar and Kell about tomorrow,’ Sirron said quietly.

Martil agreed. He had not expected them to be happy about the news, but he felt they bore it reasonably well, considering.

‘So you’ve just saved us for today?’ Kell had asked in horror.

‘Don’t be a fool, man. We’ll have to leave but you can always rebuild a farm. Can’t put people back together again,’ Petar snorted.

‘You can come and join us. We have a safe camp,’ Martil offered.

‘And then you’ll be wanting our sons to join your warriors, no doubt,’ Kell muttered.

‘That’s what boys are for, to go off and be brave, then come back and realise that farming is better than fighting. Isn’t that right, lad?’ Petar slapped Sirron on the shoulder. ‘My three lads will be happy to help you. Won’t get our farms back until you win, so might as well start fighting for them now.’

Martil explained that they were going to spring a trap on the squadron of cavalry, if it arrived the next morning.

‘But we hope they don’t send anyone, so we can leave quietly in the morning. Either way, you need to be prepared to go, taking only what you can carry.’

‘Oh, I can carry a great deal,’ Petar declared.

Lieutenant Lalbot relaxed as soon as he saw the first farm. After what had happened to the second squadron in his company yesterday, he had sent a dozen scouts out on the way in. Of course nothing had happened, and he could now concentrate on making sure he filled his wagons with as much food as the farms could provide. He had been a little apprehensive about returning here, but there were few farms left within a day’s ride of the camp, and the need for food was becoming pressing. As a sign of the desperation, the other company of heavy cavalry had been sent back to Sendric, with orders to bring back as much food as they could carry. Meanwhile, all the wagons they had lost meant only a pair of foraging parties could go out each day. But, as Captain Havrick had explained that morning, this trip should be safe enough.

‘The scum don’t stay around for long,’ he declared. ‘They strike and then run, as they are obviously afraid of us. They use the foul magic of the traitor wizard to slip past us, then slink away. After what happened yesterday, they won’t attack a foraging party for a day or two. I guarantee it. But make sure you have plenty of scouts out, just in case.’

Lalbot had almost crept past every ambush place, sending a full squad in ahead to search thoroughly each time. But now the farms were in sight, there was nowhere men could hide. Just a few frightened farmers running from the nearest farmhouse into the barn. He looked at the house sourly. His own place back in Port Cessor was a hovel compared to this two-storey wood and stone home. He would have it searched, then burned. That would teach the peasant scum. His mood was improved by the sight of several young women running into the barn. A few ripe young farmers’ daughters would be welcome but what he was really hoping for was a young mother. They would do absolutely anything to save their children. Lalbot allowed his mind to drift a little. He had found just the right one back at Sendric, the night before they left. Of course she was no good to anyone now, after he had finished with her. But there were always more peasants.

He sent his first squad to secure the house, the second to the stables, the third was ordered to the fields, the fourth to search the outhouses, and he led the fifth to the barn. This was his personal squad, the men whose ideas about peasants and the divine right of Norstalos most closely followed his own.

‘Take everything that’s edible or useful, then we’ll burn the rest,’ he ordered his sergeants casually. ‘Don’t let anyone stop you.’

He rode over to the barn, not particularly hurrying, because there was nowhere for these farmers to run. Behind him, he could see his men dismounting, joking and talking among themselves. This was the fourth farm they had sacked since joining Havrick’s force. Valuable training for the eventual invasions of Berellia and Tetril, his fellow officers had begun to say. But Lalbot did not need petty justification. His training at the academy had all been about how Norstalos had a divine right to rule. After all, had not the dragons favoured this country? Anyone who tried to prevent Norstalos’s march to glory was a traitor. As far as Lalbot was concerned, these peasants were scum, and he would stamp them out. Leaving his horse outside, he drew his sword and led his squad in from the sunlight to the gloom of the barn. Nobody was around.

‘Where are you?’ he called softly.

There was some rustling in one of the stalls up the back and he waved for his men to spread out.

‘Come on out, we won’t hurt you,’ he offered loudly. ‘Much,’ he added over his shoulder, for the benefit of his men.

‘Oh, I know you won’t,’ a deep voice said coldly and Lalbot was astonished to see a man in a mail shirt step out from behind a stall, holding a sword in each hand. Lalbot’s eyes were drawn to the weapons. One looked rather ordinary, the other seemed to catch what little light there was in the barn and make it glitter.

‘Wh—who are you?’ he blustered.

‘The man who’s going to kill you,’ the man replied, advancing in a manner Lalbot found disturbingly implacable. He glanced over his shoulder and was reassured by the fact he had a squad of men behind him, and the stranger had none.

‘Get him!’ Lalbot ordered, taking a few steps back, just so he could better watch the battle.

His sergeant, eager to impress his officer, jumped forwards, swinging his sword furiously.

But his first blow was parried, then the bright sword ripped out, shearing through the sergeant’s sword, his arm, his armour and the chest beyond. With a terrible scream the sergeant fell, writhed on the barn floor for a few heartbeats, and then lay still.

Lalbot looked down in horror, his men in stunned silence.

‘Get them!’ the man roared, and men in armour appeared all around the barn.

That was enough for Lalbot. He turned to run, tripped over an old bucket and went sprawling on the straw. He could hear the sounds of fighting around him but his only interest was in getting away from the man with the two swords. He scrambled to his feet and found, to his horror, the man was in front of him now. With no way out, Lalbot lunged, only to have his sword knocked aside. The last thing his terrified eyes saw was that terrible, glittering blade, just before it took off his head.

Martil watched the officer fall then ran to help Sirron and his farm boys. His solo act had been designed to shake up the troopers, because he knew the farm boys were nowhere near ready to fight experienced soldiers fairly. Having the officer come in here was a stroke of luck, because his death, and the death of the sergeant, had left the troopers dispirited.

Still, they were professionals, and Sirron and his lads, after the success of their initial surprise, had been forced to lock shields to hold them off.

Martil’s arrival changed all that. Two troopers tried to fight him and both died, one’s head went flying, and the other had his chest ripped open by a terrible blow. The remaining four men promptly threw their swords down.

‘Sirron, you and your brothers tie them up, the rest of you, with me!’ Martil led the others outside, to where several small battles were raging.

He had put Tarik and his archers in the house, from where they were picking off troopers from vantage points on the top floor. The remnants of an entire squad either lay beside the house or cowered under the shelter of the walls. Wime and his militia were in the stables, and were battling a squad there, while Rocus and his men were scattered through the other outhouses, and were fighting two squads there.

The battle was delicately poised but Martil and his group of farm boys swiftly tipped the balance. One canny cavalry sergeant was threatening to act as a rallying point but the Dragon Sword tore through his mail shirt and heart. With that gruesome death, the fight seemed to go out of the troopers. Swords clattered to the ground as they surrendered.

Martil sheathed his swords, and tried to control his breathing. A sprint across a farmyard in full armour was exhausting. He clapped the nearest farm boys on the back. There were only a handful of them but they had followed him without fear or question when other, more experienced men might have held back. Then, his breath back, he knew it was time to impose some order on this battlefield.

It took some time to organise the prisoners, who were made to sit in a circle, guarded by Wime’s men, while their wounded were laid beside the barn. The final tally was twelve dead, eighteen wounded, of whom at least half had wounds serious enough to kill them. Martil was saddened to see his men had also suffered losses. Two more of Rocus’s guardsmen had been killed, as had one of Wime’s militia, while another six men had been wounded, including two of the farm boys, one of whom had lost his left hand.

The captured horses were laden with food, armour and weapons, as well as the farmers’ possessions. Barrett, after helping the worst of the wounded, was made to rest and eat, ready to open a gateway for them in the afternoon. There was no question of staying out longer. They had barely thirty men able to fight. Another battle against a squadron of heavy cavalry would kill most of them. Then there were the captured soldiers.

‘What do we do with them, sir?’ Wime wanted to know.

Martil hesitated. He did not want to see them on the field of battle again; another twenty heavy cavalry could well prove the difference between victory and defeat, especially when his force was still so small. Yet he could not kill them. And he shrank away from a tactic the Berellians had tried, cutting off the right hand of captured men, so they would not fight again. His hand crept to the Dragon Sword. He sneaked a look at the hilt. There was nothing but perhaps it was still the answer. He would impress Barrett and Merren if he could win these men over.

He walked into the circle of captured troopers and saw them staring at him resentfully.

‘You came here to burn, rape, steal and kill. But you can redeem yourselves. You all swore oaths to protect and serve the people of Norstalos. So follow this,’ and here he drew the Dragon Sword, ‘and the rightful Queen of Norstalos. Protect the people and regain your honour.’

‘You killed our mates. We will never follow you,’ one hard-faced man, part of the group that had been captured in the barn, spat. ‘Any man who does so is a traitor!’

Martil cursed himself as he looked around again. The faces had changed, but not by much. One or two looked as though they would like to stand up, but would not do so in front of their comrades. They didn’t want to break ranks. He should have spoken to them individually, he realised; perhaps then he could have won some over.

‘We shall destroy you and that bitch you serve, then Norstalos will take its place as the ruler of the world, as the dragons and Aroaril wanted…’ the man continued to speak, but his voice stopped suddenly as the Dragon Sword appeared an inch from his eyes.

‘It is you who will be destroyed,’ Martil said softly, but the man’s comments disturbed him. If even the common troopers had come to believe Gello’s drivel about Norstalos being divinely chosen to rule, then Merren’s hopes that the Dragon Sword would make the army come over to her side were going to be in vain.

Martil walked back out of the circle and over to Wime.

‘Strip them naked and tie them together. Blindfold them, all but the first one, and he will have to lead them back to their camp,’ he ordered.

The militiaman struggled to keep a straight face. ‘Yes, sir!’ he grinned.

It was a weary and heavily-laden band of men and farmers that walked two miles to a large oak tree. Every man carried something, while all the captured horses were heavily loaded with weapons, armour and food. Barrett’s eyes were tired but he nodded at Martil as he prepared to jump them a few miles ahead, from where they could walk back to the camp in safety. The small band of naked prisoners was struggling away in the opposite direction, legs hobbled, hands securely tied. The wounded troopers had been left in the barn, with one man to look after them, although Martil knew several would die before help could arrive. Martil guessed it would take the blindfolded men most of the night to walk back to their camp, and when they arrived they would have no armour, no weapons and no horses. After those two small battles, one full company of heavy cavalry had been effectively erased from Havrick’s force, for the loss of five men. It was a stunning result in cold, hard military terms but Martil knew he would still have to go back and face the wives and children of the dead men.

His spirits lifted as he saw Merren and Karia among the families coming to greet the men as they slogged wearily back into the camp.

Karia came rushing up to him and leapt into his arms.

‘You’re safe! I was so worried!’

Then she recoiled a little. ‘You smell! And your face is all scratchy! I love you but you don’t get a kiss until you have a shave and a wash!’ Karia told him. ‘Isn’t that right, Merren?’

Martil saw the angry glare Barrett gave him from the corner of his eye, but ignored it. He wanted to say that he loved Karia, that he had missed her too. But the words wouldn’t come. He just hugged her instead.

‘What happened?’ Merren asked finally.

Martil sighed. ‘We lost five men dead, Barrett saved a dozen wounded and we destroyed a full company of heavy cavalry in two ambushes.’

Merren looked over at the families and Martil could see what she was thinking.

‘I’ll tell them. I was the one who led them out there,’ he said.

She looked straight at him. ‘And I was the one who ordered you to go. We shall tell them together.’

Martil would have felt better had they yelled at him. Of course there were tears, but other wives were there to support them. He was shocked to see Merren even comforting one of the younger children, who was sobbing, while her mother was bawling. He felt completely exhausted by the time they had finished.

‘I never knew that it would be so hard,’ Merren said softly.

‘That’s good,’ Martil sighed. ‘When it becomes easy to send men to their deaths, then we have a problem. I never get used to it.’

Merren nodded. ‘I never want to get used to it, either.’

Martil looked at her carefully. It was as if she had changed while he was away. There was a new strength about her, a new determination.

‘What is it?’

‘These people are the reason why we are fighting. I will not let Gello turn them into an army that will destroy every other country. They deserve a country where they are valued and respected; they have to feel as though they are fighting for something worthwhile. I will give them that,’ she told him.

‘It was Karia, wasn’t it? She does this to people. You think you have things all planned out and then she comes along and changes your whole perception of life,’ Martil grunted.

Merren smiled at him. ‘Is that such a bad thing?’ She reached up and touched his cheek, just brushed her fingertips across his face. ‘You still haven’t washed and shaved. Karia was right. You’re not getting a kiss until you do.’

With that she disappeared, leaving a stunned Martil thinking he should wash and shave. Just in case.

The death of five men had highlighted the safe return of the others. Men hugged their families, while the farm boys who had fought swaggered past the farm girls. There was fresh food from the farms, and a cow was roasted over a firepit, filling the camp with the delicious scent of roast beef. But Martil could tell the celebrations would be muted tonight.

As for him, he could hardly keep his eyes open. The stress of talking to the families, after the horrendous wait in the barn, had left him exhausted, in a way battle never did. Merren declared they would hold a council tomorrow—tonight they could rest.

He only just managed to read a story to Karia, about a princess who slept for a hundred years before a prince on a dragon woke her up.

‘I like those stories,’ she sighed. ‘Would you take me to visit Dragonara Island one day?’

But Martil was asleep, snoring gently on her bed. Karia carefully pulled the blanket up over both of them and lay down beside him. He still smelt a bit, because he had only washed quickly, but she found it comforting to know he was there. She had had a father and a da but now she felt Martil was a dad. Father Nott had told her that a dad was someone who cared for you, who looked after you, played with you and taught you right from wrong. Her time with Edil had not produced any of those things, so she had decided Father Nott and Edil must have been mistaken. Edil couldn’t have been her dad. Martil must be.

She felt her time here was much more like the family life that Father Nott had described. Your father went out to work and your mother looked after you. She had never known her mother but decided if she was going to choose one, it would be Merren. She was still a bit funny about giving cuddles but she was nicer than anyone else she had met. She remembered Father Nott had said fathers and mothers slept in the same bed, and obviously Merren and Martil did not do that, but Karia felt that was a silly rule. There was never enough room for your dolls.

Merren agreed with Martil that the men could rest and train before going out again. The wounded would take time to heal, although, at Merren’s request, Conal brought Father Quiller for a quick visit to the camp, and the priest healed all but those with minor wounds, before blessing them all and regretfully returning to the town.

There was a touch of chill in the mornings now, a hint of mist hanging under the trees, to tell them that time was passing and summer was leaving. But the days were still warm and fine and time was still on their side. This meant Tarik and his men were sent out with Barrett to slow the searchers down, while Martil trained the farm boys. They were strong, and used to work, but a sword was not a hoe or a plough. After spending a day of frustration trying to get them just to grip the sword properly, Martil gave up. Instead he handed them axes, and trained them with those. It was a strange experience. He had spent years learning how to fight against axemen, now he had to show men how to become axemen. But they took to this with far more enthusiasm—all had used axes to chop timber on the farm and the tool had a familiarity the sword could never hope to have.

The farm boys were already strong, but days of training with the axe left them barely able to raise food to their mouths. Martil realised it took months, not days, to turn boys into soldiers but he hoped they might cause Havrick’s men some problems. He knew swordsmen were often unprepared to come up against an axeman. The axeman was always going to get one swing at you. If you blocked or dodged his first blow, you were inside his reach and he was defenceless. But being prepared to gamble everything on your skill and speed—it was a difficult thing to learn. Martil had done it often enough that it was now second nature, but he rather hoped Havrick’s men would be more reluctant to risk themselves.

The little army now had plenty of supplies, arms and armour, and while she agreed to keep them safe for the time being, Merren wanted Martil to start recruiting more men.

‘Did you try the Dragon Sword on the men you captured?’ she asked.

‘Of course. But I had just used it to kill many of their friends, so they were reluctant to join. I think a few might have done, except one of them made a speech about anyone who joined us was a traitor who would die,’ Martil explained.

Merren let that go, and allowed him to go back to the training, but it worried her. Talking with the women, and promising them a better country, had focused her mind once more on what must be happening in Norstalos City. Gello would be making himself impregnable, while this small rebellion was going nowhere fast. The Dragon Sword should offer a way out of the woods but it was not happening for Martil. No matter how many times they looked at the hilt, the dragon carving was not doing anything. Until it came to life, her quest to take back her throne was also lifeless. She felt she needed some advice. This was a magician’s territory, so she summoned Barrett.

‘What can we do about Martil?’ she asked him bluntly. ‘We need the Dragon Sword to be working its magic, bringing in good men from all over the country—but plainly it is not happening.’

Barrett nodded sadly.

‘It seems he is unable to rid himself of his past. And forcing him to fight time and again cannot be helping. I fear he may never be able to unlock its hidden magic. Which means it will kill him within a year. I think we need to plan for a swifter campaign. Ambushes in the forest are all very well but we need to let the whole country know about the Dragon Sword. We have to get the bards spreading word of the rebellion. Perhaps then good men will come forward, even without being persuaded by the Dragon Sword’s magic. After all, it holds a special place in the heart of every Norstaline. Also, if we can get away from a situation where Martil has to do most of the fighting, things may improve. Being used to slaughter hapless soldiers is hardly the sort of thing that impresses the Dragon Sword.’

‘Slaughter?’ Merren asked sharply.

Barrett shrugged. ‘He is brutal in battle. Even without the Dragon Sword he would be a demon. With it, fighting ordinary men is almost like murder.’

Merren digested this for a long while. ‘So we have to either stop him fighting, and try to make him show whatever it was that first attracted the Dragon Sword to him, or plan on using him for a year to advance our cause as far as possible.’

Barrett nodded. ‘Yes, your majesty. Perhaps if he spent more time with Karia? She seems to bring out the best in him. If we did that for a week, and then monitored what the Sword was doing, we could see if there really was a change.’

Merren sighed. ‘You have given me much to think on. Now I’d better talk to him.’

She stood and paced while she waited for Martil to come in from the training field. How to approach this subject? Apart from the fact he was a peerless warrior and experienced general, she felt there was a good man inside. The way he had spoken to the families of the dead men—it was obvious he cared deeply. Then there was his attraction to her. It was something she was trying not to think about, because it would just lead to trouble. But perhaps a little encouragement might help him…she was pondering this approach and just how far she was prepared to go to regain her throne when Martil arrived, sweating lightly, from the training field.

‘Sit down,’ she invited. ‘I am concerned. The Dragon Sword should be working for you by now. At least some of those troopers should have agreed to join us. But nothing appears to be happening.’

Martil instinctively glanced down at the hilt of the Sword, then looked up guiltily. ‘I told you, I made the mistake of not talking to them individually,’ he began hotly but Merren held up her hand.

‘I am not saying this to criticise you. I told you, I am concerned. If the Dragon Sword does not respond to you, then you will die within a year of first drawing the Sword. If that happens our hope dies as well.’

‘You’ll still have the others,’ Martil objected weakly. Although he did not like the idea of dying, he did not mind hearing that Merren thought him so important.

She waved away his objection. ‘You are the commander of the army. The men would follow you anywhere. You have the knowledge to match and beat Gello. And you are the Dragon Sword wielder. Without one by my side, many of the people will never accept a queen. Your loss would set us back for years, if not forever. Which is why we need you to be the true Dragon Sword wielder, both for my cause and for your life. Now, it is just the two of us here, so I ask you, what can I do for you?’

Into Martil’s mind, unbidden, came an image of Lahra writhing beneath him, only this time it was really Merren. He tried to force the image away and concentrate on her question.

‘We’re fighting a war, against an opponent who still outnumbers us massively. There is not much that I can do to avoid fighting and killing,’ he shrugged.

‘What if you cannot unlock the Dragon Sword’s latent magic? Can we win within a year?’

Martil laughed. ‘Impossible. It took many years to win the Ralloran Wars. We need time to build up our forces and reduce theirs, to the point where we can make our move.’

Merren leant forwards. ‘Then the Dragon Sword must see that you are changing, so it, too, can change. Can you stay behind, rather than go out to fight?’

Martil laughed bitterly. ‘Only if you want those men out there killed. Besides, nobody fights for a war captain who won’t risk his own life.’

She sighed. ‘Then can you promise me you will try to avoid killing too many more men?’

Martil, embarrassed and defensive, agreed, just to get out of there. It was frustrating. That cursed Sword just sat there, the dragon on its hilt doing nothing, judging him.

Not for the first time he found himself thinking death would be the only solution to this. But then he thought of Karia, and Merren.

‘I’ve still got most of a year left,’ he told himself.

It all changed again the next day, when Sendric and Conal returned from the town. The first Martil knew about it was when Barrett came running down to the training field to get him.

‘Keep going until I am back!’ Martil told them, then waved Rocus, Wime and Sirron over and followed the wizard up to the Queen’s audience cave.

They had barely sat down before the excited but plainly exhausted Count started speaking.

‘Your majesty, Sendric is ready to rise for you,’ he announced.

Stunned silence greeted his words, and Martil felt his stomach drop.

‘We have already spoken of how the town was incensed by the way Havrick’s men stole everything they could, raped and beat and killed the townsfolk before leaving. Then came the farmers, telling similar tales. Finally, to top it all, Havrick sent a company of cavalry into the town last night to take all the food they could find. Once again they killed those who tried to stop them. The town has had enough. The only guard is the company of pikemen and, fearing the anger of the people, they have stopped patrolling and spend their time in the keep. Even better, three squads left with the cavalry, to help search the forest. With our trained men in the town, hundreds will join us.’

‘And how many of those will know how to use a weapon?’ Martil said harshly.

Conal was the first to answer. ‘Numbers don’t matter. If we came up into the stables inside the keep, it would be easy.’

‘Easy?’ Merren reacted even before Martil.

‘We made contact with Gratt, one of my most trusted servants,’ Sendric said. ‘He has been inside the castle and reports that the pikemen put their trust in walls, thinking the townsfolk will never attack. They leave their long weapons out in the open, piled together where they would be close to hand. But they only have a few men on guard. If we got inside the walls, we could kill the sentries and secure their weapons while they slept. Men cannot fight unarmed.’

Merren turned to Barrett. This was just the move she had hoped for. ‘Could we do that?’

The wizard smiled. ‘Of course. With just a little luck, we could see the town back in our hands.’

The buzz of excitement that swept around the table was cut short by Martil. Angry that Merren had turned to Barrett instead of him for the first reaction, he decided to quash this foolishness.

‘And what happens after we have taken the town, eh? Havrick finds out and marches his men back to besiege us. If we hold him off, he just whistles up reinforcements. We might be able to hold the keep with five hundred men but Havrick would make a mess of the town while we did so. And even if those men could hold him off, how would they do when Gello arrives at the head of five thousand men? Our greatest advantage is the fact Havrick and Gello do not know where we are. By doing this, we throw away our biggest weapon.’

He leant back and poured himself a cup of water, as his words sank in around the table.

Merren was the first to answer him.

‘Nevertheless, we cannot win back a nation by fighting in the woods. We must confront Gello.’

Martil nearly choked on his water. ‘Your majesty, I have won back a nation! It took nearly ten years! Despite what the sagas say, you cannot just conjure an army out of thin air!’

‘We do not have years. The Dragon Sword is not responding to you yet. We cannot wait here, expecting it to do so. We must try and win this in one year, while we hope you discover within yourself the power to unlock its magic. Or we must be so far advanced that we are almost ready to take on Gello even without you.’

Martil could barely believe his ears. Barrett must be behind this. Use Martil while they could, so that when he died, the Queen would nearly be ready to take on Gello anyway.

As Martil sat there in stunned silence, Barrett thought he should move the discussion along. ‘So if we are to defend the town against Havrick, what would be the best way to do it? Martil, you know all about attacking and defending towns, what do you think?’

It was too much for him, coming from the man who obviously wanted to take his place.

‘Are you trying to be funny, wizard?’ Martil spat.

‘It was a reasonable question,’ Barrett said defensively.

‘Really? You yourself told me I was known as a Butcher of Bellic. Were you saying I know the best way to storm a town and kill women and children? That it gives me a far better idea of how to defend against them?’

‘That wasn’t what I meant and you know it,’ Barrett snarled.

‘Stop this, both of you!’ Merren’s voice cracked like a whip across the table. ‘Martil, you go too far. Barrett is concerned about you, as are we all. Without your skills, we would not be here now. We need to take this town, because then we can parade the Sword and hoist my flag. Once we have done that, people will flock to us. The Sword means too much to them. And when we have enough men, perhaps you can avoid actually fighting. You are taking the lead in every fight—we need to stop you killing people.’

Martil had to stifle a bark of ironic laughter.

‘That could be a little difficult, given we are at war, and where the other side has all the advantages. The Dragon Sword has swung some of the battles for us. We would have lost more men if our opponents had not been terrified of facing me,’ he managed to say.

‘That is what I am talking about,’ Merren said. ‘We cannot fight the Ralloran Wars again. Nobody can afford that. We need to change our strategy. This will do it.’

Martil felt numb, almost empty inside. Was this his fate, to die in another useless war? Then, like a flame catching in an old fire, anger flickered into life. There had always been something within him that refused to lie down and give up. It was what had kept him alive this long. If he was going to die, then it was going to be at the time and place of his choosing. If he had less than a year, then he would set about winning this war within the year. And if he died doing it, that was better than waiting in a cave for some bastard of a magic Sword to do it for him.

‘Fine. I’ll start planning and we’ll meet again tomorrow,’ he growled.

There was a ripple of relieved sighs around the table.

‘That is welcome news,’ Merren said warmly.

Everyone wanted to know what had happened to Sendric and Conal, and about the town and who they might have on their side, but Martil just wanted to get out of there. He used Karia as his excuse, and put her to bed even though she was not tired. What that meant was he had to read several lengthy sagas to her and then sing everything he could think of before she actually fell asleep.

By the time he was finished, he was thirsty and tired himself. He wandered back into the audience cave, after first checking everyone had left, and uncorked a bottle of wine. He had not drunk any alcohol for weeks but it would be the ideal thing to help him get to sleep, he decided.

‘I thought you might be back after we left,’ Merren said, stepping into the chamber. She had been waiting for him to return. The conflict within him was obvious. She had to give him some hope, or he might fly apart. That was why she was here. At least, that was what she told herself.

‘It appears as if you do not care if you live or die, as long as you win this war,’ she told him.

‘As ever, your majesty is right,’ Martil said stiffly. He did not want to talk to her about this. Anger was his best friend and companion now. Thinking about a happy future during a war just got you killed.

‘Martil, do you think I want you to die?’

The emotion behind her words stopped him, and without thinking, he sat down.

Merren walked over and sat beside him, placing a hand on his forearm. He could not help but notice that her fingers were long and graceful.

‘We know—I know—how important you are to this little rebellion. If we are to win, we need you. What I was trying to tell you was re-fighting the Ralloran Wars will not unlock the good man you are, the good man that Karia sees. It was the Ralloran Wars that did this to you in the first place. So if we cannot win this war the way you beat the Berellians, we must try something else. Taking this town and protecting it from Havrick will be a good start. And there will be so many men fighting that you will be needed to control the battle, not be the battle. That, and saving a town, may be the start of your road back.’

‘Saving a town to make up for destroying one?’ Martil could not keep the harshness out of his voice.

Her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘Listen. I know you cannot forgive yourself for Bellic. Nor should you. But it doesn’t have to rule your life. I cannot understand how badly you feel, but will allowing more people to be killed help your nightmares disappear?’

Martil shuddered at the thought. ‘They should never disappear. Nothing I do can ever make up for Bellic. At my heart I am no better than Havrick or Gello.’

She reached up and touched his face. ‘That is not true. My cousin appeared to be a good man, once. But then the Dragon Sword refused him. His life was forever changed by one fateful day, as yours was. He has faced being defined by that one action, as you have. But where he wants to wash that day away in a tide of blood, is always trying to pretend his mistakes never happened, you have tried to make up for them. And you will never let yourself forget what you did. That is the mark of a good man.’

He laughed, but there was no humour in that sound. ‘A good man? Just what is a good man? A dragon’s definition of it? Why didn’t they provide a list of instructions for this bloody Sword? If you save this many maidens and help this many old ladies, then you are a good man?’

‘I think,’ Merren said gently, ‘it goes deeper than that. We are the sum of all our actions. All of them. One mistake doesn’t mean you are a bad man. Every day is a new day, a chance to start afresh, an opportunity to wipe away the past.’

Her words sank in. He wanted to believe that, wanted to think that he could, somehow, atone for Bellic. But he felt nothing could wipe away that foul deed.

He felt something break inside him and suddenly the tears were running down his face, no matter how hard he tried to stop them. He took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to hold them back, but it was impossible. Then he felt Merren draw him into an embrace, pressing his head down onto her shoulder, her hand stroking through the hair on the back of his head.

It was the first time someone had held him like this for as long as he could remember. He felt himself relax and he straightened up a little, looking down into her face. She was wearing no make-up or powders, as a queen normally would, but then she did not need them. Her green eyes were soft with concern and her lips were parted slightly, as if to ask him a question. There was a slight scent of lemon about her, and he felt an almost overwhelming surge of desire for her. It was this, more than anything, that dried up his tears and he leant forwards and kissed her, feeling her soft lips part a little. Her embrace tightened, and pulled him in closer, and he felt all his worries, his guilt and fears, disappear. Nothing mattered but this.

Then the sound of someone clearing their throat made them jerk apart, as if stung.

‘Your majesty? Captain Martil?’ Barrett said mildly.

Martil found himself truly hating the wizard at that point.

‘We were just discussing strategy,’ Merren said coolly.

‘Indeed. I thought the captain was going to apprise us of his thoughts tomorrow?’ Barrett’s voice was impossibly calm, as if he had walked in and found the two of them comparing gold mine tallies.

‘I was just going to bed.’ Martil had kept his back to Barrett until he was sure he had wiped his face clean of tears and, more importantly, was able to stand without embarrassing himself, then he walked out, leaving the wine behind. He would not give the wizard any satisfaction.

Barrett did not say anything until they could hear Martil’s footfalls fade as he walked into the night.

‘Your majesty,’ he began.

‘Barrett. You are not my parent,’ Merren said coldly.

‘I would not wish to be. I only wanted to say that Martil’s mental state is still fragile. He could go either way, become the good man we want, or become so intoxicated with the power of the Dragon Sword in battle that it is forced to kill him.’

‘You are not telling me anything we have not already discussed,’ she said impatiently.

‘We also discussed what makes a good man. And we talked about having something good to live for. I thought that Karia would be sufficient for him but it seems you thought that was not enough. That you wanted to add yourself to that list.’

‘Wizard, you go too far,’ she warned.

‘And if I had not come in? Would you have gone too far with him?’

She stepped in close, eyes blazing, but he stood his ground. ‘Your majesty, we both know that you are destined to marry to secure your throne. He wants you to be a farmwife. A relationship with Martil will create more problems than it solves. He has to find his own way out of the guilt that envelops him.’

She stared at him.

‘Your majesty, you are a queen!’

‘And is a queen not allowed to be happy?’

‘A queen should be happy when her country is happy. Any other reason is immaterial. Look inside yourself. You know that, at his heart, Martil does not see you just as a queen! He sees you as a woman first, and you can never be that for him.’

Merren was silent for a long time and Barrett did not try to break her thoughts. He knew he could sum up how Martil was feeling, because it was how he felt about her. The difference, he told himself, was he would never be so crass as to act on his feelings without the Queen’s permission.

‘You are right,’ she said finally. ‘He does see me as a woman first, a queen second. And I do agree that it could cause more problems with him than it solves.’

‘Your majesty is wise,’ Barrett bowed.

‘Now leave me. We have much to do in the morning.’

She watched him go, then turned towards her own bed.

‘But you are wrong to think that I always want to be seen as a queen first, a woman second,’ she said, almost to herself.

19

Martil awoke the next morning and felt as if he should just pull the blankets back over his head. As well as everything else that had happened, he now had to come up with a plan to allow barely fifty men to capture a town, then hold off an army that numbered more than five hundred. He sat down with paper and ink and tried to work on something, but no matter how he looked at it, he had too few men to hold the walls of the town. And while he could probably hold the keep for as long as the food held out, then use its secret tunnel to escape Gello’s wrath, this was hardly the victory they were looking for.

He was interrupted by Karia, who wanted breakfast, then to know what they would be doing for the rest of the day. She was thrilled that he was back, and wanted to have some more time with him today. The other children in their little camp had told her they were going to play with their dads that day—she wanted the same.

‘Boring!’ she exclaimed, when he explained about the planning. ‘Can’t we go out into the woods, where I can show you my magic?’

‘I wish you would magic me up a plan,’ Martil muttered.

‘Let me! I can help!’ She instantly became excited.

Martil tried to explain, but she quickly lost interest and started drawing on the plan of Sendric that the Count had provided for him, while he talked about things such as directions of attack, defensive sallies and floating reserves.

‘Don’t do that!’ he began as soon as he realised she was drawing on his plan, and then he looked at the scribbles she had made.

She had drawn a line going along the main route from the gate to the keep, a route that twisted and turned through different streets to help break up an attack. Then she had drawn lines coming out from side streets to meet her first line.

‘Can I have another piece of paper then?’ she asked.

Martil ignored her, as he stared instead at the plan, and an idea began to blossom.

‘Martil! How about some paper!’ she said, louder this time.

He could see it now. A column of troops, riding up towards the keep, suddenly attacked from all sides, with no room to manoeuvre and utilise their horses. In fact, in those confines, the cavalry would become a liability.

Meanwhile Karia was getting frustrated. He did not usually ignore her. A few weeks ago, her next move would have been to throw a tantrum but she did not want to do that now. Perhaps if she just said it loud enough to get his attention.

‘Daddy!’ She yelled it before she even thought about it and was initially pleased when he looked up then realised what she had said. What if he didn’t like being called that? What if he got angry, or wanted her to go away? She could feel her cheeks burning and kept her head down, so she would not have to see him upset.

‘Karia,’ he said softly, but she would not look up. The knowledge of what she had called him was a warm glow in his chest but he did not know how to refer to it. ‘Karia, I think you’ve solved my planning problem. How about I find you some more breakfast, then we can go for a walk through the woods, where you can show me what magic you have learned this week?’

She was just happy he was not angry—and also happy he still wanted to spend time with her. Perhaps she should just pretend it had not happened, also. So she just hugged him.

He knew he should say something to her, say how proud he was she had called him that, tell her how much he loved her. The fact he could not was haunting him. But he did not know how. So he just held her. They stayed like that for a long moment.

‘Come on, let’s get you some breakfast,’ he said gruffly, to cover what he really felt.

It was after noon, when everyone was ready to break a morning’s work with the midday meal, when Martil called them into the audience chamber. He knew they had expected him to spend all morning working on a brilliant plan, so he had no intention of telling them he had found the winning strategy in a child’s drawing and had then spent most of the morning playing dolls or catch with Karia.

The small council of war, including Tarik, who had been summoned back from his forest ambushes, listened as he outlined the obvious choices. The first was to seize the town, fortify the walls and try and hold off Havrick’s army. But there was no way to spread out their trained men to defend that length of wall. Simple arithmetic showed each man would have too much to hold. It was an impossible task.

The second choice was to just hold the keep, but that would mean giving up the rest of the town, leaving the townsfolk to Havrick’s less-than-tender mercies.

‘I cannot allow that,’ Merren stated flatly.

Martil nodded. ‘So that leaves us with our third choice. Use the town’s defences against Havrick. In fact, Count, the town was built specifically to have a defence against an invader that had broken through the outer wall.’

Sendric nodded. ‘Of course. The main road to the keep. It twists and turns, so an attacking force could be confused, split up, and attacked from the flanks and rear. The town’s designers took the possibility of a surprise attack, or goblins breaching the wall, into account.’

‘That is what we shall do. Havrick’s men will ride in, expecting us to be up at the keep. Once they are spread out over several streets, we shall strike. We shall use flame wagons to cut off their retreat and their advance. The surrounding houses we shall fill with archers and javeliners, to keep the vanguard and rearguard pinned down, while we strike in the centre and push backwards and forwards, splitting them up. Unable to use their numbers effectively, we can destroy each half. But it will be grim work. We cannot expect them to surrender quickly or easily. Remember, they think we are peasants and rebels. I will not lie—our trained men will have to lead the attack. I cannot send untrained townies in against soldiers. We could suffer heavy losses, even in victory.’

‘Is there another way?’ Merren asked quietly.

‘I cannot think of one,’ Martil admitted. ‘Although if any here believe they know of one, they should say it now.’

There was a long silence, and then Merren turned to Sendric. ‘Will the town fight?’

‘Of course, your majesty. They will be especially eager to fight knowing armed men are in the town and they must protect their families.’

Merren turned back to Martil. ‘Would it not be better to bring the families here, for safety?’

Martil took a deep breath. He was conscious of the Dragon Sword at his side, and what it might be thinking of this plan.

‘I would advise against that. The men will fight harder, knowing that, if they lose, Havrick’s men will rampage through the city. If their families are here, the men’s minds will also be here. In their minds we are already half-defeated, for we have made plans in case of disaster.’

Merren nodded slowly and Martil held his breath.

‘I see what you are saying, and much as it goes against my instincts, it makes sense. The townsfolk must fight harder than they have ever done before. Knowing they will be protecting their families might prove vital.’ She placed her hands on the table. This was the chance she had prayed for—but could she take that decision, knowing she was dooming many men to death? A few days ago the choice would have been easy. Now it weighed heavily on her conscience. Finally she looked up. ‘We shall leave tomorrow, and take the town tomorrow night. Let the men have the night to be with their families, then we shall leave here in the morning, on a march that, Aroaril willing, will take us to Norstalos City.’ It was a decision that had to be made. She just hoped it would be the right one.

Barrett surged to his feet.

‘I give you the rightful Queen of Norstalos!’ he roared, and they joined his cheer, raising their cups of water or wine.

She acknowledged their salute and swore to herself she would make this sacrifice worthwhile. These men had to know they were fighting for a better Norstalos.

That afternoon was incredibly busy for Martil. All the supplies they had stolen had to be organised: the horses loaded up with as much as they could carry, the rest to be carried by the men, women and children. Martil did not want to leave a single sword or arrow behind. Having several hundred recruits was no use if they wore old cooking pots for helms, pillows for armour and carried a kitchen knife and a lump of wood.

The mood in camp was strange; the men and their families were excited about what they were doing, but also nervous at what such a battle might mean. The farmers, those who were too old or too young to fight, were to stay behind until it was safe again, but had offered two cattle for the night’s feast. These were roasted, and the men and their families gorged themselves. When all were full, a few musical instruments appeared, and they began to dance around the fires, a last night of revelry before a battle.

Martil was dragged out of a cave, where he was counting arrow sheaves, so he could report to Merren.

‘You cannot miss our last night of fun,’ Merren greeted him. ‘Would you like to dance? Or is our fearless captain afraid?’

‘Only of what people might say,’ Martil admitted, thinking of Barrett, and adding the unspoken thought that he was also nervous about what he might feel, having her lithe body so close to him.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Come along.’

She grabbed his hand and he had no choice but to follow her out. The other dancers saw them and spread out to give them room, clapping and cheering.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t make you look foolish. Just follow my lead and don’t fall over,’ she said quietly, although he found the advice to ‘not fall over’ hardly comforting.

She took his left hand in her right, and put his right hand on her waist, just above her hip. Her left hand was resting on his shoulder. She was wearing a dark green dress that set off her eyes and, he could not help but notice, her figure. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the dress, while her hand was warm on his shoulder.

‘Here we go.’ She winked at him and then was off, twisting and spinning, Martil desperately keeping up. True to her word, she made it look as if he knew what he was doing and he even managed a grin as Barrett glared at them from beside the fire. Sweating lightly now, he was mightily relieved when she spun to a stop and he could cover his nerves with a wave to the cheering men and women. He led Merren back to where Karia was bouncing up and down and clapping.

‘My turn now!’ she declared.

‘Be careful with him, he gets scared out there,’ Merren told her.

‘I do not!’ Martil protested, then had to wipe his sweaty brow.

‘He doesn’t lie very well, does he?’ Karia said critically.

‘Do you want a dance or not?’ Martil growled.

Dancing with Karia was far easier. He just picked her up and spun her around and she giggled.

‘I love this!’ she laughed. ‘Keep dancing with me, Daddy!’

Martil almost cringed at the word. He wished she would stop saying it, because every time, saying something in return was getting harder. He didn’t know if it was his determination not to look into the future or just because he had never said such a thing before. But he could not say what she wanted to hear, what she deserved. Desperate to distract her, he looked around. Many other children were also dancing. The night had a strange air about it, as if the people were trying too hard to have fun, but were afraid of what the next days would bring. Martil could see many of the farm boys sneaking off into the bushes with women. He could not blame them.

He danced with Karia until he saw her eyelids drooping, then put her to bed; she protested she was not tired although she nodded off during a story. When Martil returned to the fire his thoughts were on Merren. But his hopes of getting her alone again were being stymied by Barrett, who was following him around like a lost puppy. He could at least sit beside her at the fire. She, too, was aware of Barrett but was determined to make Martil think of something other than a looming battle.

‘What was it like, growing up in Rallora?’ she asked.

Martil almost had to rack his brain to remember a time when he had not had a sword in his hand.

‘Peaceful,’ was the best he could manage. ‘I lived outside a small village, where my family had a sheep farm. We looked after the sheep, sold the wool and the meat, went to the local church, learnt our letters at the local priest’s school, went to dances, enjoyed warm summers and huddled before the fire in winter. It was a good life, but I suppose I had become bored with it, which was why I jumped at the chance to join the army. Of course, it might have all changed now. The village was burnt out, my friends and family killed.’ He paused, horribly aware he was spoiling her mood now. ‘What about you? What was it like growing up in a palace?’

‘No sheep,’ Merren said immediately.

‘I knew you’d make a joke about the sheep. You Norstalines always reckon Rallorans are a bunch of sheep-shagging barbarians,’ Martil joked, then realised what he had said.

‘Yes, I was saying that to the Ralloran ambassador just the other day,’ Merren said wryly, ‘and he was reminding me that Norstalines are the only people who can shit rose-scented marble.’

Martil stared at her in shock.

‘Well, he didn’t actually, but I was talking with some of the families the other day. One of them is Tetran and she was saying that to the others. I may have had some of the best teachers in the country but I am learning plenty from just listening to ordinary people,’ she smiled.

‘It must have been lonely, growing up there,’ Martil said what he was thinking.

‘It was,’ she admitted. ‘I never knew my mother, and barely knew my father.’

‘Tell me about your father,’ he invited.

Merren smiled wanly. ‘He drew the Dragon Sword, so he must have been a good man. Sadly, I did not see much of it myself. I think he was haunted by guilt—he felt guilty for being born and taking the crown from his sister Ivene, he felt guilty whenever he saw me, for he loved my mother and would take no other wife, although most of the nobles begged him to do so, especially after Gello failed to draw the Sword. I can understand him, in some ways, but I can’t forgive him for leading us to this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He put us in this situation. He was the rightful King, and wielder of the Dragon Sword. He could have put a stop to Gello and Ivene’s plotting. But he would rather risk the country than offend his sister and nephew. He tried to appease them and they spat on the trust he placed in them. If he had been stronger, we would not be in this desperate state, it is as simple as that.’

Martil heard the bitterness she struggled to keep out of her voice.

‘Sounds as if he wasn’t all that good. I’m surprised the Dragon Sword let him get away with that,’ he offered.

Merren gasped.

‘What is it?’

She turned towards him, a stricken expression on her face.

‘What you just said—all this time I suspected that Ivene had a hand in my father’s death but I could not see why she would kill him then, when her plans were not far enough advanced. Now I know why he died so young.’

‘How?’

‘The Dragon Sword. He had the chance to save his country but would not take it. He stopped being a good man. The Dragon Sword must have stolen his life.’

She sat back, stunned by her own revelation. She truly did not know what to feel. The part of her that had raged against her father—for the strictures he had placed upon her, the lack of love he had shown her and the ridiculous deal he had made on her behalf—that part wanted to say he deserved it, that it was just punishment for what he had put her through. Another part wanted to weep, to mourn for a man she honestly hardly knew, yet who had shaped her life. She was amazed she had not come to this conclusion before. What Martil had said made everything fall into place.

Martil looked at her and knew she needed some sort of comfort. She might look like she was in control—and she might even claim she felt nothing for her father—but he could see coming to such a conclusion had deeply affected her. He wondered if he should reach out to her.

Then Barrett cleared his throat. ‘Your majesty, that was a remarkable realisation. I agree with you completely. But it is something we need to examine at a later date. Its ramifications are too big to look at tonight, particularly as we have such an important day tomorrow. Time we were all abed, don’t you think?’

‘Why, my lord wizard, I do believe you have the makings of a fine mother hen,’ Merren said, with just a trace of acid in her voice. ‘I shall now leave you. Good night, Captain.’

The air in the tunnel seemed a little staler this time, although Martil had to admit, the presence of so many people and particularly horses was adding to the fragrance. The men who brought up the rear of the column were having a hard time of it in particular, stepping over and around piles of manure. Thanks to Barrett—and Karia—their march to the small wood and cave that hid the tunnel into the keep had been exceedingly easy, especially as Havrick’s men were searching in the wrong direction, a score of miles away. Opening a gate between trees for so many was obviously not feasible, but Barrett had opened several, allowing groups through at a time, to give them a literal jump-start on their march. Their only concern, that someone could detect the use of magic and the march, was a small one. According to Barrett and Tarik, the press-ganged wizards were rarely even being sent out with the searching groups—Havrick had apparently come to the conclusion that the searchers accomplished more without them.

Now they were almost at their destination, and were certainly under the town, so Sendric and Conal were sent ahead to find Gratt. The servant would lead them up to the castle and be able to tell them what had been happening since they last saw him.

Martil ordered everyone to rest and eat, for it had been a day of hard work and walking to get them to this point. Outside it was dark but few seemed sleepy. Nerves were enough to keep all awake. The wait ended after barely a turn of the hourglass when Conal returned with Gratt, both wearing broad smiles.

‘Good news. It seems Havrick has made the mistake of ordering his men not to go into the keep. They must use the courtyard as their barracks. They are all asleep, except for a couple of sentries, and have thoughtfully piled their pikes in small pyramids beside their tents. We can have them disarmed and helpless before they even wake up,’ Conal grinned.

Martil stood and stretched.

‘Pass the word. Families can wait here until we send for them. When will they change the guards?’

‘Not for another two turns of the hourglass,’ Gratt said confidently. ‘I’ve been watching them for days now.’

‘Excellent. Come on!’ Martil signalled to his officers.

He left the men waiting outside the entry to the stables, while he, Gratt and Conal eased into the darkened stables and peered out into the courtyard. Martil hissed in disapproval at the sloppy way Havrick’s pikemen had set themselves up. Their tents were in rough rows, but fires lit each one clearly, while the four sentries stood around another fire, talking and drinking rather than doing any watching. Wordlessly, he signalled for the other two to follow him back into the stables, then summoned the others.

‘Tarik’s lads will take out the sentries, the rest of us take the pikes and then we’ll wake the sleepy bastards up,’ Martil ordered. He had had misgivings about stealing weapons from men but the alternative, creeping into their tents and slitting their throats, was not going to be approved by Merren. Or the Dragon Sword, he had thought glumly.

‘Are they wearing armour?’ Tarik asked.

‘No, they’re just in tunic and surcoat,’ Conal replied.

‘Broadheads then, lads. Come on.’ Tarik waved his men up, and they spread out, each standing in the shadows of the stables, where they were hidden but had a clear view of the target. Martil almost felt sorry for the guards. None was more than forty paces away and Tarik’s men had chosen broadhead arrows, which had a traditional steel head as wide as a man’s finger at the base, narrowing to a sharp point. For men in armour it was not as effective; then they would use the bodkin arrow, which had a needle-like head to concentrate the force of impact and drive it through metal. But the broadhead could do terrible damage to an unarmoured man or animal.

‘Ready? Draw and loose!’ Tarik hissed, and the twelve great bows thrummed, a noise that made one of the sentries turn his head. Not quickly enough. Each man was struck by three arrows, the force throwing them from their feet. One jerked for a few moments but then all were still, none having even had the chance to cry out. In the firelight, Martil could see blood sprayed up the walls from where the arrows had ripped into the men.

‘Rocus! Wime! Sirron!’ Martil pointed, showing the men where they should go, and the guardsmen, militia and farm boys fanned out through the pikemen’s camp, groups of men going to each neat pile of pikes, pulling it apart silently then hurrying back to the stables, where they rested the weapons against a wall and went back for more.

‘Tarik, get your lads up on the wall, just in case anything goes wrong,’ Martil ordered.

But it went well—at least until Barrett got himself involved.

‘How goes it?’ he whispered.

Martil gestured to where a steady stream of men carried stolen pikes back to the stables.

‘And the sentries?’

‘Dead. Tarik’s boys took them down before they had a chance to cry out.’

Barrett grabbed Martil’s arm. ‘You should have called me! I could have put them to sleep without killing anyone!’

Martil ripped his arm free. ‘This is a war, wizard. I thought you were tired. And besides, if something goes wrong here, I’ll need you to do it to all of them, not just four.’

‘Can we keep the noise down until we’ve got all the pikes?’ Conal hissed at them.

The stream of men slowed to a trickle, then a grinning Sirron appeared with a pike in his hand.

‘This is the last one, Captain,’ he smiled.

Martil felt the tension leave his shoulders. The town was theirs.

‘Form up! Two lines! Draw swords!’ he ordered quietly. ‘Tell the Count and the Queen that we are ready.’

They swiftly formed up, then Martil took up position at one end, Barrett at the other. Finally, out came Merren and Sendric, both dressed in court finery, to stand with Martil.

‘We are ready, your majesty,’ Martil told her in normal tones.

She nodded. ‘Then begin.’

Martil drew the Dragon Sword. ‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ he bellowed. ‘Come out and bow down before the Queen!’

The pikemen stumbled out of their tents, woken by the shout, but, as it was not a sound of alarm, they were wondering if one of their fellows was playing a joke. They walked out to find their weapons gone, a double line of men in armour, swords drawn and shields locked, facing them, and a line of archers on the wall above, from where they could pick a man off as easily as a dragon could fly.

‘Where is your officer?’ the Queen demanded.

A short man with curly black hair and sleep-reddened eyes pushed his way to the front.

‘I am Lieutenant Bibbert. Who are you?’ he growled, walking towards her. Unlike most of his men, he had snatched up a dagger before leaving the tent.

‘She’s Queen Merren. And you will be dead if you take another pace!’ Martil barked at him.

Bibbert looked up at the archers, blinked, then came to an abrupt halt. The dagger dropped from his nerveless fingers.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked finally.

‘We are taking back the town. You may either join us, or spend the rest of your lives in the dungeon,’ Merren told them.

‘Taking back the town…You mean to hold it against Captain Havrick?’ Bibbert gasped as the words sank in.

‘More than that. We intend to defeat him,’ Merren said coldly. ‘We have the Dragon Sword!’

But Martil could see they were not impressed. Bibbert was thinking, in fact most of his men were thinking, there was no way such a small group could hold off companies of infantry and cavalry. Join them and you would die, or spend a few days in the dungeon and emerge when Havrick took the town. It was not a difficult choice. One or two men started forwards but were instantly held back by their comrades.

Merren turned to Martil, and her face was sorrowful.

‘Very well, put them in the dungeons,’ she sighed.

‘Take them away!’ Martil ordered Wime and he began to lead the men off, one squad at a time.

‘Is your dungeon big enough?’ Martil asked Sendric.

‘It was built to hold no more than fifty men. We do not have that much crime here. They will be a little crowded, but it will be enough to hold them for a few days, until Havrick is defeated,’ the Count said confidently.

Martil turned to Merren. ‘My Queen, you have one town back under your control,’ he said gravely.

She smiled. ‘Thank you, my lord Champion. Now we must tell the people about it.’

The pikemen were being taken down to the dungeons, but Martil could not relax. The supplies, the horses and the families had to be brought out of the tunnel, and organised. Conal and Gratt disappeared, going to make contact with the town council, while Sendric wanted his old flag to be flown again, a white eagle over a white castle on a sky-blue background. There were too many jobs and not enough men for it, but as dawn lightened the sky, and the last of the pikemen were behind solid iron bars, he was beginning to feel as if they would be finished by noon, at least.

The sounds of the town stirring into life drifted over the wall, and Martil organised for a score of the warhorses to be prepared, as well as Rocus and a squad of his guardsmen.

‘No helms! We want the people to see your faces,’ he instructed. ‘Now, send for the Queen.’

Merren had wanted to ride through the town, to greet the people and show them they were free once more. Since her talk with the women back at the camp, she was determined to show the people—in this case the townsfolk—that she was worth fighting for and not some distant, uncaring monarch with no concept of ordinary life. Old surcoats with Sendric’s coat of arms were brought out, then Rocus took the flag, and they were ready to go. Karia, naturally, wanted to come along, an idea Merren thought marvellous.

So the townsfolk awoke to the sound of trumpets blaring, looked out of their windows to see the old, familiar flag flying high above the town, and heard a strange procession moving through the streets. First came the town crier, then Rocus with the flag, then Count Sendric, the Queen, an armoured man riding with a small girl and finally a squad of armoured men in Sendric’s colours.

Martil felt faintly ridiculous at first, listening to the crier shout out that the Queen and the Count had returned, and how Sendric was the first free town in Norstalos. But Karia was enjoying it immensely, waving at everyone, whether they waved to her or not.

Word began to spread, and the few sleepy townsfolk who greeted them when they first rode out soon swelled to a crowd, as neighbours were woken and friends and relatives told. Children ran alongside, laughing, and soon the crier was barely able to be heard over the sounds of cheering and music.

Women offered flowers, or plates of food. Martil tried to refuse, but Karia was having none of that. Soon it looked as though he had a small flowering bush riding in front of him, although one that was complaining bitterly because he only let her eat two honeycakes.

By the time they had ridden around the town and were on the way back to the castle, the crowd of cheering people was so thick, they were hard pressed to keep going without stepping on anybody. And trailing behind them was a huge number of men, both young and old, most carrying some sort of weapon, from crossbow to club to old rusty sword.

‘It’s all going so well!’ Merren laughed.

The gloom that had enveloped her at times back at the camp was gone. She could feel they were really taking a step towards freeing her country. As Queen she had ridden among her people often enough—waving demurely, and receiving the usual waves and a few cheers in return. When Gello had taken over her palace she had stared out at the plaza and longed for the people to show they missed her. She had been disappointed then but this was making up for all of that. The response was huge. She had never seen people so happy to see her. All her doubts had fled now. She was sure this was the way to win back her throne.

But when they arrived back in the keep, it was to find there had been an unseen problem. While Havrick had been in control, and the Count in hiding, a small number of people had seen this as their chance to become rich. By offering help to Havrick, they had been allowed to take over other people’s shops, or homes. Now it was time to pay the price for their actions, as their neighbours turned on them, so Martil was forced to send out Wime and his militia to stop these people from being killed.

As it was, he soon found himself standing at the front gates of the town, looking over a score of men, some with families, all bearing bruises and other marks, most clutching just a few possessions they had managed to snatch up before being thrown out.

‘You can’t do this to us,’ one man bellowed. He was sporting a fine black eye, and his rich clothes were stained from where he had been pelted with rotten fruit.

‘He killed a baker and made his family work like slaves for him. Havrick let him do it because he was sending bread to the troopers,’ Wime muttered.

‘You got what you deserve,’ Martil told him. ‘You thought to use people’s suffering to make yourselves rich. Well, now you can go and beg off Havrick’s table once more. Tell him what has happened here. You might even get to live. But don’t come back. Because if he comes back here, he will die. Tell him that.’

‘You fool!’ Black Eye shouted. ‘Anyone can see this is Duke Gello’s time! His men will come back here and crush you like bugs! And we shall return with him, and rule the town! I’ll be back, to piss on your corpse!’

Martil just spat and walked away. ‘Shut the gates,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t have time to deal with scum like this.’

He climbed wearily back into the saddle for the ride back to the castle and the hundreds of problems waiting for him there. Luckily Conal and Sendric had done much of the early work, but, as the War Captain, he was responsible for organising the townsfolk into a small army, capable of taking on Havrick’s professional troops.

‘If only I had an extra head, and perhaps another pair of arms,’ he told Wime as they rode back along the streets that would form the killing ground when Havrick arrived.

‘You could see the wizard. I’m sure he could help you out there,’ the veteran militiaman grinned.

Martil laughed. ‘If I know Barrett, I might end up with more than I bargained for.’ He glanced over at the militia officer, who had proved so steady and reliable over the past few weeks. In fact all of the officers had come along. Even Rocus could be entrusted with a command now, he felt.

‘How do you think the town will go?’ he asked.

Wime whistled softly. ‘Ask me after the battle,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll be putting coopers, smiths, bakers, farmers, herdsmen, shopkeepers and apprentices in against men who have been trained for years and believe they are an army of conquest.’

‘Are they angry enough to stand?’

‘They’re angry. There were many robberies, rapes and quite a few deaths at the hands of Havrick’s men,’ Wime said, then hesitated. ‘I discovered at least eight of the dead were Rallorans.’

Martil looked at him. ‘What?’

‘They were working as security on inns in the town. It has been the mark of a rich inn that it can afford Rallorans to guard its doors. It seems they took their task seriously, even when the inn was full of troopers. But against armed men, they didn’t stand a chance.’

Martil spat. ‘It’s another reason to get my hands on Havrick. So the townies are angry. Good. But will they fight?’

Wime looked around. Even half a day after the original parade, there were still people out waving and cheering at them.

‘They are angry enough to attack. It’s whether Havrick’s men are willing to stand and fight back. That’s when the test will come.’

‘We can’t let them form a shield wall,’ Martil said almost absently, as he looked up at the houses looming over the street. The ones along this road had been built like small fortresses, with solid doors and no windows facing the street on the first level. He imagined how it would feel to have archers, crossbowmen and javeliners hurling missiles down at you, especially if you were in a tightly packed column. ‘Caltrops,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Caltrops. We need to throw them down along with everything else. If we can get horses rearing and throwing riders, it will help disrupt them completely.’

‘Another thing to add to the list,’ Wime sighed.

It was a long list. Martil had half-thought that the days waiting for Havrick to show up would be full of anxiety, nerves stretched by the thought of when the soldiers would appear. But in reality, he did not have time to be worried. In fact, he barely had time to eat or sleep. As well as the weapons they had brought with them, there were the castle’s emergency weapons in the keep. These were javelins, which had the virtue of requiring little skill, just a strong arm, and were thus ideal for breaking up a massed goblin attack. More than a thousand of these short spears were in the castle, which meant Martil could put one hundred men in houses above the streets and let them cause havoc.

But the biggest job was trying to organise the townsfolk. Many wanted to help, and some even had experience. There were a number of men who had served in the army and either retired or left because they would not openly support Duke Gello. Then there were the men who had either served in the militia or hunted regularly. Finally there were the ones who just wanted to protect their homes and families—these ranged from farmers who had left their homes to escape the depredations of Havrick, to apprentices bored with their menial duties and shopkeepers wanting to protect their wares.

These men must be graded: from those who could be trusted to loose crossbow bolts from the safety of the second storey of a house, to those who would follow Martil’s experienced men into battle and fight, to those who were willing enough but either too old or out of shape to realistically take part.

But his problem was, how could you tell them apart? A man who ran could create a panic and lose the battle in an instant. All professed their eagerness but Martil had to put each one through a mock battle with Wime’s crafty militiamen before he could make a judgement on them.

Meanwhile there were myriad other problems. The town had been stripped bare of wagons, so new ones had to be found or built, then loaded with straw and oil-soaked wood, so they could be used to block side streets and stop Havrick’s advance. Then the smiths had to slave away, creating caltrops as well as trying to make spearheads, which were the easiest and quickest things to produce. Then there were the supplies. The town had been stripped by Havrick, and while all the remaining supplies had been brought from the caves, it was not enough. Especially as many farmers and people from surrounding villages were flocking to the town.

Merren thought they may have been inspired by the Dragon Sword.

‘We can’t be sure. They could just be scared and seeking shelter. If there was one thing I have learned, it is that you cannot underestimate the stupidity of people during wartime,’ Martil warned.

‘But if not, then it means our decision was the right one, and the Sword is responding to you!’

Once again Martil had to draw the Sword for her inspection but the lack of anything much did not seem to dampen her enthusiasm. Merren was thriving in the atmosphere. She was meeting with dozens of people each day, negotiating with the town council, persuading shopkeepers to unearth hidden supplies and just cheering up the volunteers by visiting them and talking to them. This would be the start of her New Norstalos.

Her spirit was rubbing off on the town. People seemed genuinely inspired after meeting her and Martil did not want to spoil what was becoming a potent weapon for the defence. ‘Perhaps it is happening but not when we stare at it. Anyway, we should wait until after the battle to know for sure,’ was all he was willing to say.

Merren might be helping but there were still many problems only Martil could deal with. One morning he was summoned to the main gate, where a squad of Rocus’s guardsmen were caught in a stand-off with a group of caravan guards.

‘What is going on here?’ Martil demanded.

‘We need not only the food they have brought, but the wagons as well. We offered fair market value but the merchant refused to sell, and threatened us when we told him he wasn’t going to be allowed to leave with the wagons so he might as well get a decent price for them,’ Rocus explained. ‘They said they were leaving either quietly or over our dead bodies, then one thing led to another and…’ He gestured towards where the caravan guards stood in a tight semi-circle, their backs guarded by a wagon, shields locked and swords drawn.

Martil sighed. It was the last thing he needed now. ‘I’ll talk to them,’ he told the guardsman.

‘Who is in charge here?’ he called as he walked towards the group, probably a dozen strong.

‘Captain Martil? Is that you?’ a strangely familiar voice called back.

Martil peered at the faces looking back at him from under steel helms and a memory stirred.

‘Sergeant Nerrin? From the inn on the border?’ he shouted.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Stand down, man, and bring me the merchant you serve, so I can explain what is happening.’

The merchant turned out to be a rather fat man with an enormous beard and a habit of sweating prodigiously.

‘These wagons are the lifeblood of my business!’ he blustered, looking anxiously at Nerrin, after Martil had explained what they were doing and why they desperately needed wagons.

‘You will be able to buy double the number of wagons once you are back in Norstalos City,’ Martil said impatiently.

‘Double, you said?’ the merchant asked, suddenly interested.

‘Double,’ Martil agreed wearily, wanting this over with. He was spending the Queen’s gems rather rapidly but victory always came at a price.

‘Done! A pleasure doing business with you!’

Martil watched him hurry off, and signalled to Rocus to pay the man and then drag the wagons off to the keep.

‘Sir?’ Nerrin said, interrupting his thoughts.

‘Yes, sergeant?’

‘I couldn’t help but overhear what you said. And it would be an honour for my men and me to serve you once more, sir!’

Martil looked at the tough, red-headed Ralloran warrior and felt the temptation to add a dozen prime men to his little army. They would be worth ten times their number in shopkeepers. But then the memories of the Ralloran battlefields came flooding back.

‘Sergeant, this is not your fight. You and your lads have done all the fighting you need to. Relax and earn your money from merchants. But mind he pays you a bonus, your bravery earned him double the fee we are giving others!’

‘But, sir…’

Martil put his arm around the man’s shoulder. ‘Nerrin, I am taking a bunch of townsfolk into battle against professional soldiers. We may outnumber them slightly but there are scarce fifty men I can count on. I would love nothing better than to have you and your men on my side. But I have seen too many good Rallorans die under my command. I cannot have any more die in a fight that is not their own. Let these Norstalines stand up for themselves. They are always telling us how good they are. As for me, I have no choice. I drew their Dragon Sword, now I am the Queen’s Champion. But you—you should go away, find a wife, and raise some kids. Don’t walk into another war.’

‘Sir, you know any Ralloran who served with you would walk into Zorva’s realm and spit in his face for you.’

Martil stared into Nerrin’s eyes. ‘That is why I cannot ask them to. You understand? Now go, you are not to take part in this battle. That is an order!’

Nerrin’s face showed his reluctance but he still drew himself to attention.

‘Yes, sir!’ The Ralloran saluted and signalled to the rest of the guards to follow. He hated to leave Captain Martil but he could not disobey a direct order. He watched Martil walk away, then blinked. It seemed to him that the hilt of the captain’s sword was shining at him. Strange, for the sun was not even out.

Not all problems were so easily solved. Martil had the various forces rehearsing twice a day now, using trumpet calls to relay his orders. Simple ones, such as advance and retreat. For anything else, he would rely on Barrett using magic to communicate with his officers. The early attempts were a shambles: wagons arriving at different times, men charging down streets that did not meet up with the main approach road, men falling over and injuring themselves. But they were getting better. Slowly.

And all the time he was spending training the men meant he was not seeing much of Karia. And she was less than impressed with this—and constantly pestered him to spend time with her—and added to his existing guilt by telling him how much she loved him. Much as he wanted to indulge her, so many lives depended on him that he could not spare her much time. Nor could he bring himself to tell her how he felt. Karia, meanwhile, was both frustrated and upset by Martil seemingly ignoring her. He had tried to explain things to her and, while she could understand why he had to keep leaving her, it did not mean she liked it.

Meanwhile, Barrett was keeping an eye on Havrick. The men who had been forced out of the town had scattered, but a dozen had stayed together and travelled to Havrick, telling him the town had risen behind him. His search parties had now travelled quite some miles into the woods—in the wrong direction—and he had to recall his wide-ranging forage parties before he started his march back towards Sendric.

‘He’s pushing the men too hard. The supply wagons are not catching up until late at night, and he’s moving so fast that they don’t have time to forage. By the time they reach the town, they will have run out of food,’ Barrett reported.

‘Excellent. The men will be tired and hungry. That may prove to be a decisive edge,’ Martil smiled.

‘I estimate they will arrive in two days’ time. And that will be a hot day for marching.’

‘Better and better,’ Martil agreed. ‘Our men will rest during the day, eating and drinking as much as they can. We have to force them to do this, for many will be too nervous to feel like food, but they will fight better and longer on a full stomach.’

The officers nodded. As well as seventy crossbowmen and a score of archers—a few more hunters having been found to join Tarik’s dozen—he had one hundred men with javelins to put into houses, and a mass of more than four hundred men armed with a variety of weapons, from spears to axes to pikes to swords, and wearing a variety of armour, from thick leather jerkins to mail hauberks to several thick winter coats. The last would not stop a sword blow but gave the wearer a feeling that they had some sort of protection.

‘I shall speak to the men,’ Merren decided.

That night the volunteers massed in the courtyard, where they made an impressive sight. Merren and Martil stood above the gate, Martil holding aloft the Dragon Sword, a squad of guardsmen holding torches, so they were bathed in light.

‘Soldiers of Norstalos!’ Merren shouted, Barrett ensuring her voice could be heard across the courtyard. They cheered that line, as Martil had known they would. He had secretly instructed Wime and Sirron to get their men to lead the cheering of the speeches, so that the other men would be in the right mood.

‘Soldiers of Norstalos, we shall write a new and glorious chapter into the history of this proud country! The man who ordered his soldiers to rape and kill your friends and family, to burn homes and steal all they could, is coming here to destroy this town. But he will find you, instead! We shall defeat him, through your bravery, and in years to come, Sendric will be able to boast that New Norstalos started here! Our road to triumph started here, and you will be forever proud of that!’

They cheered her again, and Martil had to wait until it had died down before he stepped forward and held up the Dragon Sword.

‘Here it is! The Dragon Sword given to King Riel all those centuries ago! In all that time, no Norstaline army has lost when it was led by the Dragon Sword! Remember that! It will help you win!’ He waved the Sword high then and they cheered him. ‘Now go and enjoy yourselves—and know this, any man who is wearing the blue sash of a volunteer can drink at any inn in town and never worry about paying a coin!’

That brought an enormous cheer, and they filed off then, eager to test his statement.

‘Lose the torches and join the fun, lads,’ Martil told the guardsmen, who were delighted to obey.

‘They will be ready now,’ Martil predicted, waving at the men who jostled their way out of the courtyard, spreading out in search of inns. He felt a little sick. He hated making speeches before battles to fire men up so that they would die more willingly on the morrow.

‘What about you?’ Merren asked. Her stomach was churning at the thought of what tomorrow would bring. He was supposed to be the strong one, yet he seemed to be in a worse state.

Martil shrugged. ‘We’ve done all we can. It is up to the men—and Havrick—as to how the battle goes now.’ He looked out over the town and laughed harshly. ‘I swore I was done with my last battle when I left Rallora, yet here I am, ready to fight another—and if we win this one, it will lead to even more. Truly, Aroaril must want to punish me.’

Merren stepped closer. ‘Or Aroaril could be helping me. I know of no other warrior who could have brought us to here. And I doubt any other could give us victory tomorrow.’

Martil shrugged. ‘Even if we win, many of those men will die; die under my command.’

‘No!’ Merren snapped. ‘They will have died under my command. This is my burden, more than it is yours. We are all here because of me. I will not have you take on that responsibility when their deaths need to be on my conscience.’

Martil looked at her and saw the fear in her eyes, as well as the grim determination. For a heartbeat he forgot about the battle and thought only of kissing her.

‘Now I have one important duty for you, Captain,’ she told him.

‘What is that?’ His imagination jumped ahead, his heart beat a little faster.

‘You need to read Karia a book, then get a meal and a good night’s sleep. She’s been annoying me, because she can’t see you. So cheer her up. That is a royal command!’

He could not help but smile at that.

‘That’s better! You need to smile more, Captain. Your face has been entirely too grim of late.’

‘I can’t think why,’ Martil said wryly.

Merren smiled and gestured towards the stairs. ‘Hurry up, Captain. I had to promise Karia that you would see her, or she would never have left me alone!’

Martil escorted Merren back towards the keep, where they had all been staying. The women and children would wait here during the battle, so Conal would command a group of old men to guard its walls, protecting the keep in the unlikely event of the battle getting that far.

Merren knew she needed to keep Martil’s spirits light but also wanted to hear what he thought about the speeches.

‘Do you think they will make a difference?’ she asked. ‘I have never had to give a speech before a battle before.’

‘If it affects one man, it will be worth it. That one man might turn the battle for us,’ he reflected, then thought he should sound more positive. ‘And this night with the families is just the thing to stiffen the men’s resolve.’ He gestured to where many of the women were joining the rush of men heading off to the inns.

‘What about you? What do you need to stiffen your resolve?’ she asked with a smile.

Martil truly did not know how to respond. With a whore or a barmaid, the women he had most associated with over the past dozen years, he would have made a ribald comment. But with a queen…Even though he felt there was something between them, he suspected Barrett would probably be lurking around in case he tried anything. He had to change the subject—and quickly—before he blurted something he shouldn’t.

‘I need to tell Karia how I feel about her,’ he said without thinking.

‘She does know, although she desperately needs to hear it,’ Merren agreed softly.

‘Has she said something to you?’ Martil asked immediately, worried.

Merren smiled gently, and a little sadly. ‘No. But I know how it feels to be a small girl who loves her father, and wants to hear how much he loves her, and waits in vain.’

Martil did not hear the sadness, just the words. ‘Of course I love her! It’s just that saying it…’ he said defensively.

Merren laid her hand on his arm.

‘I know. One day you will just say it, and everything will be fine. But you can’t force it. Anyway, I’ll look after her tomorrow. You just try and stay out of the fighting, merely direct the battle.’

Martil laughed, pleased to be on an easier topic. ‘If there is one thing I know, it is a plan never works perfectly. Something will go wrong, or something unexpected will happen. I will probably end up fighting, because I am trying not to. It is the way battles go. And if my fighting saves men’s lives, then I will do so, even if it means my own is in danger.’

He put his hand on the hilt of the Dragon Sword as he stepped aside for Merren to go inside the keep first. Strange, he must have been standing too near a torch. It was curiously warm. He shrugged and followed Merren inside.

20

‘We should wait for the supply wagons to catch us up. The men are tired, thirsty and hungry. The town cannot escape us, so we can delay our assault until the morning, when the men are fresher,’ Jennar suggested, as Havrick and his officers surveyed the town.

‘Wait? Do you think a few score men and some shopkeepers and farmers can stop us?’ Havrick snorted. ‘Two companies will be all that’s needed to drive them out.’

‘With respect, sir, the men have been in the field for weeks. Most of the horses would be declared lame by a stablemaster at any barracks, my men have endured a forced march to keep up with the cavalry and everyone has spent the last few days on short rations. I know what the keep of Sendric is like. Even if the Queen only has one hundred men in there, we could lose double that taking it. But if we wait until tomorrow, when the men are fresh, our losses will be much smaller.’

Havrick looked around. The infantry were mainly sprawled on the ground, drinking the last drops from their waterskins. The cavalry had also dismounted, to give their horses a rest. Many of these were almost painfully thin, the ribs showing through, the coats lacking the gloss of good condition. The ambushes and the repeated arrow attacks in the woods had left him short of men. The wizards, of whom he had held such high hopes, had proved less than useless and had been unable to keep up with the march. They were on the supply wagons and would not arrive until late that night, if not tomorrow. His infantry, their numbers boosted by the heavy cavalrymen who had survived ambushes but lost their horses, were down to barely one hundred and fifty. His heavy cavalry was now just one company, his light cavalry was in the best shape of them all, but had still lost most of one squadron. More than five hundred men was easily enough to put an end to this rebellion but to arrive back in Norstalos City with less than half of the men he had set out with would hardly help his career. Perhaps he should wait…

‘In fact, sir, might it not be best to just bottle the town up and send word to Duke Gello? Within a week, he could have two regiments of heavy infantry here, and we would win easily.’

Havrick thought of the two war captains that would accompany their regiments north; how they would take the glory, claiming that Havrick was not able to finish off a few shopkeepers and farmers. He imagined his father laughing at him, and had to grind his teeth together to stop himself from shouting at Jennar. He was in charge and he would make the decisions. ‘We have enough men to do this ourselves. Duke Gello does not care about losses, only results. We shall wait until morning. Our presence here will give the townsfolk a chance to think about the assault that is coming. They may well hand over the rebels to us rather than fight.’

‘And if they do not, sir? What are your orders for the town?’ Jennar asked.

‘We punish it. Destroy the town, so that no others dare to rise against us,’ Havrick declared. ‘Let Sendric be a lesson to any other rebels.’

‘Sir, with respect…’

‘Lieutenant Jennar, if you attempt to use that phrase to me again, I shall have you dismissed! I have given my orders! Now tell the men to stand down and rest—no less than fifty men for guard duty tonight. And, Jennar, you can be officer of the guard.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Jennar saluted wearily, knowing he would not sleep that night. He wanted to protest more, for he could see his concerns about slaughtering the townsfolk on the faces of several of the other officers. But none said anything.

He glanced over at the walls of Sendric, walls he had served behind for two years now. As a northern fortress town, it had always had a strong garrison in case of goblin attack. It was only recently that two other companies had come to join his men, ostensibly to secure the northern mines although in reality they had preferred to stay in the comforts of the town. So he knew many of the people inside, and he wondered about taking his company over the wall tonight to join the defenders. He knew the heavy cavalry troopers assigned to him would not come; he was hard pressed to get them to do anything other than complain that they had no horses. But his men would follow him, and could make all the difference tomorrow. He could feel something pulling him towards that course of action. It made no sense, yet his heart told him it was the right thing to do. The feeling was quite intoxicating and it took a physical effort to turn away from the wall. He was thinking about turning back when a trumpet call from the town made him turn, made everyone turn.

A score of men in heavy armour, riding on captured cavalry horses, but wearing the blue surcoat of Sendric and carrying its white-on-blue crest, had ridden out of the gate and formed up before it. It was a challenge, an obvious challenge. Too obvious. Jennar opened his mouth to say so but it was too late.

‘Mount up! We assault now!’ Havrick screamed.

Already the heavy cavalry were forming up, wanting to charge these impudent rebels who rode their horses and wore their armour—and so flaunted their defeats in their faces.

‘They’re at our mercy!’ Havrick exulted. ‘That’s half their force there! We can smash them now and end this tonight. Once inside the town, our men cannot be stopped! Heavy cavalry at the front, lights behind, your men to bring up the rear, Jennar!’

The column hurriedly formed up, going from their marching formation of four men per rank, to a solid column of ten men per rank, thin enough to go down a street, but strong enough to shatter a shield wall.

‘Ignore the townsfolk! They’re sheep to be slaughtered after the real work is done! Kill those scum up there, sack the keep, then you can have all the wine, food and women you want in the town!’ Havrick roared, before easing himself into the column of heavy cavalry, about two-thirds from the front.

Meanwhile the men in blue sat patiently on their horses.

‘Get them!’ Havrick bellowed, and his trumpeter sounded the advance.

Then the rebels turned and spurred their horses back into the town. Havrick’s men gave a roar and followed, although the horses were barely able to make it to the trot. Still, it forced Jennar’s infantry to jog to keep up. Jennar thought about telling Havrick that this looked like a trap but he knew it would not do any good. Besides, he was running out of breath attempting to stay with the cavalry.

The walls did not show any defenders, and the gate was open, but still Havrick tensed as they rode underneath, then laughed when it became obvious there was no-one on the walls. That, more than anything, told him the townsfolk had not risen in any great numbers.

He had been shocked to hear the Queen had taken the town, and at first had feared it meant the Dragon Sword was working, and the whole district would be against him. His initial terror had passed when his officers had informed him even just one company of heavy cavalry could shatter a mob of poorly-armed peasants. Then, when they did not march out of the town, he realised the rebels had made a fatal error. There would be no more fruitless searches through woods. No more despatches to the Duke where he had to lie about numbers of rebels killed. Just one final attack and then the chance to ride back to the capital and receive his rewards.

But he was still wary of the number of ambushes his men had suffered. So although his cavalry officers begged for the chance to charge, and although the score of rebels trotted disdainfully ahead of them, he ordered the men to rein in. There would be no wild charges until he could see the keep, and know there were no barricades placed ahead of him, lined with archers to destroy his cavalry.

Deeper and deeper into the town they went, Havrick now wondering a little at the complete absence of people. Undoubtedly they were afraid, and had hidden themselves, but he still expected to see a few around. The little group of rebels trotted ahead of them, teasing them almost, and it took all Havrick’s authority not to let his men spur into the charge.

By now they were so far into the town that his men were strung out over several streets, and he could not see the rear of the column. He had just decided to pass an order down that Jennar should stay close, but the light cavalry should peel off and ride through the side streets, when the trumpets sounded.

Instinctively, men looked around, and the column slowed.

‘Do you hear that?’ someone called.

Havrick could only hear trumpets, a strange call that he did not recognise. Then he heard something else, a strange rumbling noise.

‘Look out!’ someone screamed.

A large farm wagon, filled high with straw and well ablaze, was hurtling down a side street towards them. Trapped by men in front and behind, Havrick forced his way forwards and out of its path. Others were not so lucky. Men and horses were struck by the impact and fell, or ran screaming as they caught alight. Other wagons had rolled out of other side streets, and up and down the column there was confusion, men shouting and screaming, wounded begging for help. Men instinctively tried to rally together but were being cut off from comrades by the flaming wagons.

Ahead, the rebels had stopped, but before Havrick could think to give the order to charge, other men in blue wheeled yet more wagons across the road, then tossed torches into them. These wagons also went up in flames, creating a barrier that no horse would charge. Their way ahead was blocked, the way behind was probably also cut off, which just left the side streets. Havrick opened his mouth to order his men to scatter into the side streets, when a new trumpet call sounded. This was one he did recognise—it was the call for archers to attack.

Instantly the column was raked by a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts. Men and horses fell, and not just from the arrows. Havrick saw a javelin sink deep into a horse’s haunch, the animal reared and the trooper fell backwards. He caught sight of something flying towards him out of the corner of his eye. He threw up his shield and it stuck into the shield’s face with a loud metallic thud. Glancing down, he saw it was a wickedly pointed star. A caltrop. Any horse that stood on one of those would not walk again that day.

‘Form up! Draw swords!’ the heavy company officer bellowed, trying to restore some order. Havrick thought he should be doing the same, but the words just did not seem to be coming out. Then he saw the officer hit by three crossbow bolts and realised that anyone shouting orders was swiftly going to become a target for the archers and arbalesters in the houses. He decided his first priority was safety, so he stayed low and kept his shield high.

Sergeants were now yelling for the men to dismount and break into the houses, take the fight to the archers, but every shouted order provoked a flurry of missiles.

‘We have to get off the street! Sir! What are your orders?’ a sergeant yelled at Havrick.

Before Havrick could think of a reply, the man’s horse stepped on a caltrop and reared high. The man threw his hands up to keep his balance, and a crossbow bolt smashed into his head, splattering Havrick with brains and blood.

Havrick stared as the man’s body slowly toppled over and tried to think what he could do. He knew he should impose himself on the battle. He had plenty of men, although at the moment they were cowering in doorways and hiding behind shields, rather than doing anything that would win this fight. But all he could think of was how angry Gello would be if he lost this battle, and how his brothers would have been proved right.

Then he heard a third trumpet call.

Martil watched Havrick fall into his trap with relief, but he knew it could not last. Scores of men had gone down from arrows and the fire wagons, but there were plenty left, and these would have to be tackled man to man. The plan was for Wime and Rocus to drive into the centre of the column, cutting it in half, then Rocus to push towards the head and Wime to push towards the rear, where, hopefully, the two pockets of men would surrender when they saw they were trapped.

‘Sound the attack,’ he ordered.

He watched as Rocus and Wime led the screaming rush of townsfolk out of side streets and into Havrick’s column. The remaining officers and sergeants—those that the archers and arbalesters had not already picked off—shouted at their men to get off their horses and form lines. They were not quick enough.

Rocus, fresh from luring Havrick into this rash advance, led the charge into the confused troopers. The men in the middle of the column were light cavalry, carrying just swords. Rocus, his guardsmen, Sirron and his farm boys drove into them, their shield wall giving them a decided advantage. Into the gap poured a variety of townsfolk, at the front mainly militiamen or men who had served in the army before, but behind them ordinary men.

These men had seen their friends and neighbours robbed, raped and murdered. Their own families were sheltering in the keep. They knew what it would mean to lose. Their hatred, their anger, their fear for their families, these propelled them into the troopers with a fury.

On the other hand, the troopers had spent weeks walking through woods, being picked off by archers. They had drunk little water and eaten only scraps that day, their horses were tired and they were expecting a short battle followed by a night of drunken looting. But they had been trained well, and after the initial surprise, when a score were cut down easily, they tried to stand their ground and fight back.

‘Don’t let them rally!’ Rocus knew the bulk of his force was yet to reach the battle and he had to create space for them to spill into the street.

He smashed his shield into the face of one trooper and let the men behind finish the writhing man off. Rocus had been insulted by men like these for years: told he was just a chocolate soldier, who would melt in the heat of battle, told he was little better than a servant, good for opening doors and standing at attention and nothing more. But the last month had been a true learning experience. He was fitter, stronger and far more skilled thanks to Martil. And when Martil told him he would be leading one of the attack, that he was now better than many of the officers Martil had known back in Rallora, he swore to himself he would make his captain proud. His men were formed up tight, shields locked together in a wedge shape, with himself at the point. Sirron led another wedge and the two of them forced their way into the mass of troopers. Even the weight of his chain mail hauberk seemed as nothing, as adrenalin drove him forwards. A man lunged at him, but it was easy to block the blow with his shield, then stab with his own sword to open a huge wound in the man’s groin. He screamed horribly and fell, so Rocus stepped over him, trusting a townie to take care of the man later. Behind him, his guardsmen stayed close, cutting down troopers who tried to tackle them individually. Their weeks of hard training were paying off, the men working together.

The street was crowded now, bodies of men and horses slowing their progress, but they were still pushing the troopers back, creating little pockets of men that were surrounded and cut down by the townsfolk behind. On the other side of the street, Sirron had stepped back to let the group that had trained with axes lead the attack. These were particularly effective. Troopers without shields were reluctant to get near to the wicked double-bladed axes. As Martil had hoped, none were willing to step inside the arc of the axes, and a group cowered away, forcing Sirron to turn aside to deal with them. A flood of townies pushed past, eager to join the fight, getting ahead of Sirron’s squad. A dozen troopers, still in the saddle, saw their chance and spurred to the attack, riding down their own wounded to try and drive the townsfolk back.

They cut down several men and others scattered. Rocus saw instantly they had to be stopped, or they could reverse the gains already made. He was about to shout to his men to follow him to block them, when the last townies were cut down or ran back to reveal Sirron and his farm boys formed up in front of the charge. Rocus, the battle forgotten, watched, afraid of what might happen. He could not hear the orders, but the first rank went down on one knee, the shields came up and suddenly the horses were faced with a wall of spears that they refused to charge into. They swerved to either side, one horse went down with a spear in its chest, and the charge was broken.

Instantly the townsfolk swarmed in, preventing them from re-forming. Troopers cut and slashed furiously, handing out wicked wounds, but they could not guard themselves on all sides. Their horses were hamstrung and fell, or they were dragged out of the saddle and beaten to death with a variety of weapons.

Rocus raised his sword in salute to Sirron, then turned again to the troopers around him. The very narrowness of the street, which had caused the initial problems for Havrick’s troops, was now working in the soldiers’ favour. The townsfolk needed the advantage of numbers to smash through, but only a certain number of men could fight in the street at the one time. Rocus could see the armoured forms of heavy cavalry troopers ahead, who were pushing through their lighter cousins to join the fight, and knew his men would be in trouble soon. He wanted to win the battle by himself, but Martil had drilled into him that a good leader knew when to ask for help. He signalled to one of his men, who began waving a flag, so Martil and Barrett could see it. That done, he returned to the attack.

‘Kill them!’ he roared, pushing his way to the front of the wedge again, and battering down a trooper with repeated heavy blows, until the man failed to block one and took a sword through the throat.

Martil was the first to see the blue flag waving near Rocus, even before Barrett.

‘Rocus is asking for help. Obviously he thinks the heavy cavalry will be able to stop his advance,’ he said aloud.

‘Wime is doing well, driving his side further back,’ Barrett reported.

Martil looked down at the battle for a moment. He knew his options. He had not wanted to have too many side streets accessible to Havrick’s men. It would be too easy for them to escape down them. So he had used fire wagons to block them onto the main street. But it meant he could only get his fighters into battle down two streets, one for Wime and one for Rocus. And men who had not reached the battle could not win it. He had to push the cavalry far enough back to bring all his men into play. There was only one way to do it.

‘Let’s go. We’ll smash our way through them together,’ he ordered.

Barrett hissed his disapproval. ‘And the Queen’s order to stay out of the battle?’

‘We have to win this battle. If we don’t go now, it may be too late. The Dragon Sword will crack the defenders open. Come on.’ Martil had no time for debate. The battle was in the balance. Wime’s successes would count for nought if the townsfolk with Rocus were put to flight.

He and Barrett were on the roof of a large house, four storeys above the battle. Rather than run down the stairs, down several streets and then push their way through the men waiting to join the fight, Barrett simply took Martil’s arm.

‘Jump!’ he cried and together they leapt off the building, floating down gently to land behind Rocus. Martil had been warned what to expect but he still found it both terrifying and exhilarating to have their descent controlled by Barrett’s mastery of the magic.

Townsfolk made space for them to land, while astonished troopers stopped fighting for a moment to watch the amazing sight.

‘I don’t have any armour!’ Martil realised, too late.

‘Don’t worry,’ Barrett smiled. He touched Martil on the arm, and suddenly Martil felt warm all over. He looked down to see his skin had turned a deep brown. He poked at it experimentally and discovered it felt the same from the inside, but outside it was hard and unyielding, like leather armour, only stronger.

He looked up to see Barrett’s skin was the same.

‘You will be able to move as if you were wearing no armour, but it will stop most sword and arrow blows, although an axe cut can do some damage,’ the wizard grinned. His caution at joining the fighting seemed to disappear as he hefted his staff, which had suddenly become the size of a small tree again. ‘Shall we go and win this battle?’

Rocus was no longer pushing forwards, but standing and holding his ground against the heavy cavalry troopers who were facing him. Over to his left, he knew Sirron would be doing the same, but he dared not spare the time to look. His left arm was bruised from the battering his shield had taken, while his right shoulder and arm were on fire from where he had been trying to bash his opponents down. The armour was now a weight that was making his back ache, while he desperately wanted a drink of water and the chance to rest his arm. But he dared not step back. He and his men were taking a toll of the enemy, but the troopers were brutal on any brave townie who tried to take them on.

The two sides were locked together now, shield to shield, thrusting and jabbing with their swords, the men in the second ranks doing most of the killing. The ones at the front barely had room to swing their weapons.

Then he heard a bellowed war cry from his left, and risked a look. The trooper he was fighting did not take advantage of the sudden opening, for he too was staring in surprise and horror.

Rocus turned again, to see Martil and Barrett push their way to the front of the shield wall. None could stand against them. Barrett would swing his staff, and knock back two and three men facing him, not just sending them to the ground, but flying ten feet through the air, to crash into the men several ranks behind them. Martil, on the other hand, carried two swords but used only one. Each stroke of the Dragon Sword sheared through shields, swords, armour and flesh; one blow was all it took to cut down whoever faced him.

Into the space they created, townsfolk pushed forwards, attacking troopers from two sides.

‘Into them!’ Rocus, his sore arm forgotten, pushed forwards again, using brute strength to shove the trooper back, and then swung his blunted sword with all his might, forcing it through the man’s armour and into his groin.

The troopers in the front line simply could not stand against the wizard and the warrior. Martil was frightening in the way he fought, just a brutal economy of movement as one blow was all it took for a man to be killed or wounded so badly he could not fight on. There was something implacable in the way he drove into the troopers, the way the Sword cut through metal armour as easily as the flesh beneath.

But the one doing the most damage was Barrett. He fought as if he held a quarterstaff, but one that was four times as large as anything any trooper had seen. With each blow, men were sent flying, to crash into those behind them. Screaming men were sent high into the air, one even soared across the street to smash into the wall of a house. Another that got too close took a blow to the head and was punched downwards so hard his helmeted head was crushed level with his shoulders and his leg bones were smashed to shards. Men tried to back away, pushed into those behind them, and all the time Martil and Barrett were driving forwards, a mass of townsfolk behind them. The battle was at a critical point now. It required the troopers to do something dramatic to win. But the men were exhausted, hungry and tired and most of their officers were dead. They did not have it in them to tip the balance back again. One man threw down his sword and raised his hands in surrender, then another, and then a rush of them.

‘Hold!’ Martil bellowed, and the advance stopped.

The townsfolk nearby gave a massive cheer, waving their weapons in the air.

Martil signalled to Rocus. The big guardsman had slung his shield over his shoulder and was drinking deeply from a waterskin but he hurried over, a broad grin on his face.

‘Well done, Lieutenant! But we’re only halfway there. Take your men and one hundred townsfolk and go and help Wime. He was pushing the other side back but I’m sure he’ll be glad of the reinforcements.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Rocus saluted. ‘Sirron did well, stood down a charge and broke it up.’

‘Did he? I’ll be sure to thank him. Now go! We’ll celebrate after the last man is in our hands.’

Rocus saluted again and then ran off, calling his men to him.

‘Sergeant Sirron!’ Martil waved the young farm boy over, but one look at his face told him this was not just a farm boy now, this was a soldier.

‘Good work, lad.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I think you are ready to become a lieutenant now, and take command of your own company!’

Sirron’s face lit up, the hardness around the eyes going and the young farm boy re-emerging in his broad grin.

‘And you, sir! You were amazing! You and Barrett won it for us!’

‘No, lieutenant. You and your lads won it for us, with your bravery.’ Martil smiled and took Sirron’s hand in the warrior’s grasp, wrist to wrist. He felt a great deal of affection for the youngster. Martil could see the parallels with himself in Sirron, and knew that on such men, an army could be built.

‘Your first task as a lieutenant is to get the prisoners into the houses we prepared.’ Along the street, houses had been turned into temporary prisons. All the furniture had been removed and the windows boarded up. Once the doors were locked, the men inside were no longer a danger and could be watched over by one or two men. ‘After that, you need to check the wounded and go and find the priests.’

The town’s three priests, as well as two from outlying villages, had volunteered their services to help the wounded. They would concentrate on the badly injured, while the town’s apothecaries and healers, as well as other volunteers, would help bind the wounds of those less badly hurt.

‘Yes, sir!’

Martil watched Sirron stride away and start yelling orders, and smiled. He did remind him of himself, years past.

‘Good work, Captain,’ Barrett said tiredly, removing the magical protection from his and Martil’s skin.

Martil shook the wizard’s hand as well, again using the warrior’s grip. ‘You did well. They were more scared of you than they were of me,’ he smiled.

‘I’m glad they gave up when they did. That was taking a great deal out of me,’ Barrett admitted.

‘The job is not over yet, wizard,’ Martil warned.

A yell behind them made them turn, and Martil saw Sirron striding towards them, dragging a protesting Havrick along with him.

‘Captain! I found this coward hiding in a doorway, behind the body of one of his own men!’ Sirron shouted.

Martil walked over to where Havrick was trying to wriggle out of Sirron’s grip, but the young man’s farm-bred strength was proving too much for him.

‘Captain Havrick. I’d like to say it was a pleasure to have you in my power but there is no pleasure in it at all. You are a piece of filth who allowed your men to commit vile crimes without fear of punishment. I will see you tried and hanged for the murdering scum you are,’ he told him. ‘Throw him in one of the houses by himself and, if we’re lucky, he might save us a job and kill himself.’

All Havrick’s bluster of their previous meetings was gone. He twisted and turned helplessly in Sirron’s grip, his eyes wide with fear.

‘The code of honour?’ he gabbled. ‘I am the commander of this army, you cannot try me like a common criminal!’

Martil laughed. ‘You spat on the code by your actions in this town and the surrounding farms. Take him away. He has nothing to say that I wish to hear.’

‘Wait!’ Havrick began but Sirron dragged him away.

‘Your men killed my father. I’ll be asking the captain if I can carry out your sentence, you bastard!’ the farmer hissed.

Havrick looked into the cold eyes and knew he was not going to survive. Well, if he was going to die, he was going to take some of the scum with him. Martil caught the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, but even as he started to yell a warning, it was too late. Havrick had a dagger at his belt and he whipped it out and slammed it into Sirron’s chest, the slender blade crunching through the mail shirt, right up to the hilt. Havrick tugged the blade free but lost control and it dropped to the cobbles. He turned to run but Martil was on top of him before he could get more than two paces.

‘No! I am unarmed!’ Havrick covered his head with his hands but Martil was in no mood for mercy. The Dragon Sword swept around in a terrible blow, and head and arms went flying into the air. Martil did not even stop to see the mutilated body fall, instead turning to Sirron. The young farmer had sunk to his knees, and had gone very white.

Blood was spurting out of his side, drenching his armour and the cobbles around him.

‘Someone get one of the priests!’ Martil roared.

‘There are men they could save. I don’t think I am one of them,’ Sirron grunted.

‘Don’t talk like that,’ Martil snapped. ‘I order you to live!’

Sirron tried to smile. ‘Sorry, sir. Look after my brothers.’ Then his head slumped forward and the breath died in his throat.

Martil laid him down gently and retrieved the Dragon Sword. A terrible anger was building within him, and he made no attempt to stop it. He just hoped the battle had not finished, so he could take it out on some of Havrick’s men.

‘Martil…’ Barrett tried to speak to him but he shrugged the wizard off. No doubt he would want to complain about killing an unarmed man. As far as Martil was concerned, it had been like putting down a rabid dog.

‘Martil, there’s a runner approaching!’ Barrett tried again. ‘It’s one of Wime’s men.’

This time Martil looked up, feeling disappointed that the battle was over—and then saw the expression on the militiaman’s face.

‘Sir! Come quickly! We need help! It’s all gone wrong!’ he gasped.

‘Get the horses,’ Martil ordered.

Jennar’s disquiet had been growing with every step he took into the town. Havrick was a madman who did not care who he sacrificed to his own ambition. And he was persuading other men to do things they would ordinarily find repugnant. He knew several of the cavalry officers, not well, but over the course of the years he had seen them at army exercises. He would have sworn to Aroaril that they would not kill farmers and burn down buildings, yet he knew they had done so. And if they were prepared to do that to their own people, what would they do to the Avish and Tetrans when the invasions came? Jennar felt like turning his men around and marching back out of the town. He seriously toyed with the idea of just letting the cavalry get too far ahead of him, so he would not be a part of the battle that was to follow. And he even found himself thinking he should wait until the cavalry were committed, then draw swords and attack them from the rear.

So when the trumpets sounded, his mind was far away. But he snapped back into awareness when flaming wagons rumbled out of side streets and blocked his retreat. And when arrows, bolts and spears began to rain down, his mind was back on the job.

‘Shelter by the walls! Stay low!’ he roared, diving for cover as a pair of arrows clattered onto the cobbles where he had been standing. He looked around quickly. A dozen men were down, almost all of them former heavy cavalry troopers, who were too used to their horses doing all the thinking.

There was no obvious escape, and a close look told him the houses were not just empty but had bars over the doors and no windows, so they would prove difficult to break into. Too late he remembered the town had been designed to spring such an ambush on an invading force. More trumpets sounded, and he could hear shouting and war cries, which could only mean that the centre of the column was being attacked. His first instinct was to rush towards the fight, the second to prepare his men to meet the charge. He looked around carefully. How could he form a defensive shield wall if a score of archers and arbalesters were picking his men off?

It was an effective trap, he conceded. But what was the best way out of a trap? To use the one route they would never think of. The wagons were blazing away, but the wheels still worked—and the cavalry would have some rope on their horses. Almost before he had finished the thought, he was running towards the cavalrymen, angling towards the smarter ones, who were sheltering under their horses.

‘Follow me! Come on, or they will kill us here like rats!’ Jennar bellowed at the squad. A javelin flew at his face—he had to deflect it away with his shield and when a trooper stood up to wave his fellows over, he took a bolt through the chest and collapsed.

‘Move it! We don’t have much time!’ Jennar ducked down, wincing as an arrow slammed into his shield, grazing his forearm. His tiredness was forgotten, although he could see exhaustion had affected the troopers and their horses in particular.

Perhaps a dozen troopers followed him, trying to use their horses as cover. Arrows and bolts slashed down, and three of the horses were struck, while one trooper took a crossbow bolt through the thigh and dropped to the ground, unable to keep up. But they were able to run down the street to where the wagons still burned before the men in the houses above them worked out what was going on.

‘Shields!’ Jennar bawled, and a score of his men ran out, providing both cover and a diversion. Jennar saw he was right to make the wagons his target. The archers and arbalesters were concentrated further down the street, thinking that nobody would go near the blazing wagons. But while the heat was fierce, men were able to get close enough to tie ropes onto the front of the nearest wagon.

‘Pull!’ Jennar roared.

The ropes were lashed to the saddles, and troopers whipped the frightened horses, making them pull and rear—and drag one of the burning wagons away. Seeing this, a hail of arrows, bolts and javelins flew down. In an instant two horses were down and several men with them. But they had done their job. There was now an opening wide enough for two men to ride through side by side.

‘Come on! Shields up!’ Jennar waved to his men, who responded in a rush.

By keeping together, and keeping their shields up, they were able to ward off the worst of the missiles. A handful of men went down, caught by lucky or skilfully-aimed arrows and bolts, but he was able to get more than one hundred and twenty of his men and dismounted troopers, both light and heavy, out, as well as a score of cavalry, before the gap was blocked by the dead.

‘What now, sir?’ one of his sergeants asked, as Jennar looked back at the chaos.

Jennar hesitated. He could march away with honour intact, bring his men back to Norstalos City and perhaps even win promotion. He could surrender, and know he had done his best. Or he could try and turn the battle.

‘We make for the keep. We’ll use the back streets. We know this town as well as they do. We can avoid them and arrive at the one place they won’t be expecting us,’ he decided.

‘But the keep, sir? Why there?’

‘The Queen will be there, along with the Count and all the town elders. Maybe even all the women and children. It’s the logical place to keep them. We take that and they’ll hand themselves over to save their families. Take the keep and we win,’ Jennar declared.

21

The last of the light cavalry were surrendering by the time Martil and Barrett arrived at the other end of the column. They had taken the back streets, which had taken time.

‘What’s the matter? They’re giving up!’ Martil pointed to where Wime was stripping weapons from a group of beaten troopers. Again, these men looked tired and Martil noted absently that this had obviously had an effect on the battle.

Rocus waved to Tarik, who came running over.

‘The infantry managed to drag one of the fire wagons out of the way and escape. We think there could be as many as a hundred and fifty of them, infantry and a handful of cavalry. We’ve looked in the surrounding streets but they’ve disappeared,’ the hunter gasped.

‘They know the town. They know if they try to hold the gate for Gello’s reinforcements, we’ll attack from all sides and swarm them under. Perhaps they’ve decided to run back to Gello,’ Rocus suggested.

Martil looked around. The man who could get out of this trap was not going to slink back to Gello.

‘They’re going for the keep,’ he said suddenly.

‘What? Why?’ Barrett exclaimed.

‘They realise the Queen is there. They capture her, and the townsfolk’s families, and we’ve lost.’ Martil knew he was right, although it made him feel sick in his stomach. ‘The townsfolk would rather turn against us than see their wives and kids killed! Get the horses now!’

‘We can’t get back through the main street, the fire wagons will still be burning,’ Barrett protested.

‘Then you need to put them out! Move! We need one hundred men and fifty horsemen!’ Martil roared.

‘It’ll take a while, the horses are being held further back up the road,’ Rocus pointed out.

‘Then you follow as fast as you can,’ Martil said calmly. ‘Barrett, you come with me—I need your magic to get me past the fire wagons.’

‘And where are you going, Captain?’ Rocus shouted.

‘To buy you time to reach the keep,’ Martil replied, leaping onto Tomon.

‘But, Martil…’ Barrett began.

‘There’s no other choice, wizard! You and I have to save the Queen!’

Without another word, Barrett swung into the saddle and the two of them galloped back up the street, men leaping out of their way.

‘You heard the captain! Follow me!’ Rocus bellowed, running after them.

Martil let Tomon run as fast as he dared. Although the town’s priests and healers were out helping the wounded, the street was a charnel house of dead men and horses, not to mention all the caltrops that littered the cobbles. It had been a brutal fight, packed into a small space, and dead and wounded men lay thickly atop each other. Men clutched missing limbs or clawed at their own spilled entrails, screaming in pain. Others were crying: begging for help, for their loved ones, for release from their suffering. Some dragged themselves towards where they hoped help might come from. Others just lay there, unable to do more than moan, as their lives leaked into the cobbles around them. Martil saw it all, and it burned into him, although he brutally forced it from his mind, focusing instead on where he was needed. The horses would normally shy away from treading on bodies but thanks to Barrett’s magic, they seemed to glide past every obstacle, hurdle every problem that might have slowed them. Martil could hear Barrett grunting with the efforts he was making, for there was no respite for him. The few areas that were clear of bodies were only empty because they contained still-burning fire wagons. As they approached each one, Barrett extinguished them, until Martil could at last see the huge barricade that had blocked Havrick’s advance, still burning fiercely.

‘I can put out the fires and move the wagons, but then I’ll have to rest,’ Barrett warned breathlessly. ‘I don’t have much left.’

Martil glanced at the wizard and saw the sweat beading his face. ‘Just get me past the wagons,’ Martil told him. They raced towards where the burning wagons still completely blocked the street. Martil was beginning to think Barrett had left it too late, when the fire suddenly flickered and died, and the nearest wagon skidded across the cobbles, opening enough room to get past. Martil glanced over his shoulder to see Barrett slumping over his horse’s neck, his face grey and lined.

‘One last thing!’ Barrett thrust a hand out and Martil felt his skin tingling. He glanced down to see he had turned brown again, which meant his skin was the texture of thick leather. He looked back to thank the wizard but saw Barrett had fallen off his horse and was spreadeagled on the cobbles. There was no time to stop and see if he was all right. The keep was ahead.

Merren paced up and down the walls, trying to see what was going on. She had heard the trumpets, seen the fire wagons and listened to the screams, shouts and the clash of weapons as the battle started, but the smoke from the flaming wagons blocked their view. Even with their elevated height, she could only see arrows and javelins flickering down.

The waiting was terrible. She wanted to be out there, wanted to see what was happening. A few weeks ago she could have looked at this objectively and seen that a victory was more important than individual lives. She could have told herself that every man fighting had made his choice and knew what they were risking. But she could not help worrying about the men who had fought for her in the woods, and the ones she had met over the past few days, the townsfolk who were defending their families and homes.

They weren’t just a faceless mass any more, they were people with real lives—lives that could be ending in blood and agony on the street. She could see the pain and the fear on the faces of the women and those children old enough to realise what was going on, who waited behind her in the keep. Once she would have struggled to understand it. Now she shared it. And it made her wonder if this would make her a stronger, better ruler—or weaken her. Certainly Gello did not seem to worry about the fate of the men who served him.

She paced the battlement and forced her face to radiate calm. If not for the people watching her, then for Karia. She dreaded to think what would happen if the little girl lost Martil. She had tried to distract Karia with books—hoped to distract herself in the process—but could not manage it. Luckily Conal was also there.

He was dressed in armour, which actually seemed to suit him. There was little trace of the old, stinking bandit now. He looked like a grizzled old veteran and he alone seemed calm. She had thanked him for it, because he was keeping Karia happy.

After what seemed to be an age, the noise and action had moved further down the street; they could not see arrows flying and the shouts, screams and the sound of metal on metal had definitely lessend.

‘I could take a patrol to have a look,’ Conal offered.

Merren was tempted, because she desperately wanted to know what was happening. The last word she had had was that Barrett and Martil were joining the fighting. Without the wizard’s magic, it was obviously much harder to receive word of how the battle was progressing. And she did not want Karia to see what was going on.

‘Look over there!’ Karia jumped up and down, her voice squeaking excitedly…

Everyone automatically followed her gesture and saw the fire wagons suddenly flicker, the flames die, then shift aside—and a man gallop through and charge towards the keep as if Zorva was right behind him.

‘It’s Martil!’ Karia said excitedly.

‘Martil? But why is he coming here—like that?’ Conal voiced what they were all thinking.

‘He’s shouting something—what is it?’ Merren strained to hear, and the others dutifully fell silent.

‘Get the gates shut! You’re about to be under attack!’

‘Under attack? But I thought the battle was getting further away,’ Merren gasped.

‘Look there!’ Sendric pointed off to their right, to where a mass of men were pouring out of a side street, both infantry and cavalry, the cavalry racing to cut Martil off.

‘Can we shut the gates?’ Conal turned to Sendric immediately.

Sendric looked at how close the cavalry were getting.

‘Not a chance. The gates have not been moved in years. I cannot remember the last time they were shut. I doubt we could force them now, if, indeed, they can be shifted at all. Your majesty, I would advise you to head to the tunnels. We can hold them off long enough for you to escape.’

‘And the families we have in the courtyard?’ Merren demanded.

Sendric shrugged. ‘The reality is, your majesty, that we can always find a few more farmwives and mothers. But if we lose you, then we lose the war.’

Merren looked down at the women and children massed in the courtyard below. She knew instantly there was no way she could leave them there and still take the crown. She would never be able to live with herself.

‘I won’t leave them to die. Conal, take all the men you can to the gate passage. It is narrow there, is it not?’

‘Aye, but I have old men and,’ Conal held up his own hand, ‘cripples. We won’t stop them for long. But while I have breath, I shall hold them back for you, your majesty.’

Merren leaned forward and kissed him on the brow. ‘Go with Aroaril. Whatever crimes you committed in Norstalos, I now absolve you of them. Fight once more with honour.’

Conal slipped the stump of his arm into the straps of a shield and saluted. He blew a kiss to Karia and then ran down the stairs, bellowing for men to join him.

Merren watched Martil riding closer. It was clear the attackers would not catch him, but they would not be far behind.

‘Martil must have a plan. He needs time. Sendric. Get some boys over the murder holes, ready to drop anything they can on the attackers.’

‘The fires have not been lit, and any oil left above the murder holes will probably be rancid by now. Still, the smell alone might deter them,’ Sendric shrugged, then hurried away himself, calling for the older boys to stop kicking a ball around the courtyard and follow him.

‘What should we do, Merren?’ Karia asked, her eyes wide.

Merren was about to suggest Karia should go to the stables, where she could get to the escape tunnel easily, then remembered the little girl’s powers.

‘We wait,’ she said.

Martil galloped under the gate, cursing Conal and Sendric with every breath. Why were they not closing the gates? He kicked free of the stirrups and jumped down as soon as he was clear of the gate tunnel, to find Conal, a dozen town elders and two score of older men, none of them under fifty, many of them carrying paunches, white beards, or both, forming up. Sendric was talking to a bunch of boys, all judged too young to fight.

‘Why isn’t the gate shut?’

‘Bloody things are rusted open,’ Conal replied. ‘We’re going to try and hold them in the gate tunnel. Anyone else coming to help?’

‘Rocus and about fifty men on horseback, followed by about one hundred more on foot, but they’ll be a little while.’ Martil raced back down the gate tunnel. It was dark and narrow, closing from the wide gate to funnel men into a small space, just wide enough for two men on horseback to ride down. Above were many of the arrow slits and murder holes, if Sendric could just get the boys to use them. Here a small group could hold back a much larger one for a short time, until weight of numbers eventually began to tell. But perhaps they could hold them long enough for Rocus to arrive. Not waiting to see if Conal and the others were following him, Martil grabbed one of the massive gates and heaved at it. The thing did not move. Swearing, he hauled back with all his strength, and it shifted perhaps an inch before it stuck fast on a raised cobble.

‘Martil!’ Conal roared, and he looked up to see the first infantry were barely fifty yards away, advancing at a brisk walk now. Behind them, the score of cavalry they had brought had formed up near the smouldering fire wagons, obviously planning to delay any help getting through. Martil cursed again, left the stubborn gate and ran back down the tunnel. At its narrowest, there was room for four men to fight abreast. This would slowly increase as they were pushed back, until—Martil did not want to think about that. Standing in the front row were Conal, a fat town elder with a bushy black beard whose name Martil could not recall but who claimed to have been a soldier many years ago, and one of the town blacksmiths, a massive man who would have been a tough opponent in his youth but who had a pair of young grandsons playing in the courtyard behind.

‘Just give me room and make sure they can’t get around to my sides,’ Martil instructed, drawing the Dragon Sword and rotating his neck to loosen his muscles. ‘Is the Queen safely away with Karia?’

The sudden silence did nothing to reassure him.

‘She won’t go,’ Conal said finally. ‘She doesn’t want the families to die while she escapes.’

‘This is not the time for noble gestures! If they get her, it’s all over!’ Martil snarled.

‘Not the time for noble gestures? Captain, what are we doing here then?’ Conal pointed out.

Martil sighed. ‘You know, I think I preferred it when you were making jokes, rather than making sense,’ he grumbled.

‘If I think of anything funny, I’ll tell you,’ Conal smiled. ‘It’s been a pleasure to serve with you, Captain. An honour. Except for the fact you threw a tankard of my own piss over me, I would thank Aroaril you walked into the inn that day.’

Martil shook Conal’s hand, taking it in the warrior’s grip. ‘You saved my life back at Barrett’s house. I’ll try to repay the favour.’ Then he turned to the man on his right, the elder with the big beard. ‘Aroaril forgive me, but I have forgotten your name. I hate fighting with men whose names I do not know,’ he admitted.

‘Garif,’ the elder smiled. ‘And don’t worry, Captain, I may have slowed a little but I can still teach these youngsters a thing or two.’

‘Warrun.’ The blacksmith on Garif’s right offered a massive, scarred hand. ‘I’ll stand firm. This’ll be something to tell the grandkids, how I fought with Captain Martil.’

‘As long as I can tell my grandkids I fought with Warrun the Smith,’ Martil grinned back. He hated war but he could not stop himself from loving the brotherhood of the battleline. He was about to risk his life with these men and every breath was sweet, every silly remark was hilarious. You felt an extraordinary kinship with men you stood beside in battle. It was something you never forgot. He could see Havrick’s infantry getting closer, so drew his left-hand sword.

‘Lock shields. They’ll see I have none and come for me. But when they start dying, they’ll turn their attention to you. Just get the ones I miss,’ Martil instructed, as the first of the infantry appeared at the head of the gate tunnel.

These soldiers saw the line of men waiting for them, saw how old most of them were, anticipated an easy victory, cheered themselves and charged. And died.

Martil bellowed a war cry, a wordless sound of rage. The anger he had felt against Edil, the anger he had felt against Havrick, these were nothing compared to the massive rage that swamped him now. The thought of these troops getting their hands on Merren and Karia made him want to kill them all. Thanks to the Dragon Sword, and the ability he had honed on a score of battlefields in Rallora and Berellia, this rage powered him, but did not overpower him. He did not lash out blindly, or crazily. He could still use all of his skills. The two swords formed a glittering wall of death, the Dragon Sword cutting apart any that came near. The deadly defence in the middle of the gate tunnel forced men left and right, anywhere to avoid the madman with the blade that cut through armour as easily as it did flesh. As well as a natural inclination not to go near him, the pile of bodies that grew in front of him slowed the attack.

To either side, Conal, Garif and Warrun simply tried to steer men back towards Martil. For a short while they held firm, trading blows with men far younger. Warrun, who had a long war hammer, battered one man down with massive blows, as if he were beating out a horseshoe. He swung the hammer in a wide arc, knocking back a pair of other men, then brought the hammer down on another helmeted head, smashing the helm and skull underneath beyond all recognition. But a sergeant ran in beneath the hammer’s arc and slammed his sword home in Warrun’s throat. He then stepped into Warrun’s place, so the men behind Warrun could not hold the line and were naturally forced back a pace.

Garif traded blows with a pair of men, laughing at them, cursing them, then slashing open the arm of one and opening the throat of the other. But then Warrun stumbled and his right side, the side without a shield, was undefended. He was breathing heavily now, trying to protect both himself and Martil, but the soldiers did not give him time to recover. He blocked one thrust and feebly tried to riposte, only to have his sword knocked aside and a blade open his chest. He fell and the line contracted again.

Conal did not waste his time or energy with extravagant cuts and blows. He simply covered up behind his shield, tried to protect himself, and stabbed back with his sword when he saw a chance. He had wounded only one man but as he was alive, he considered that fair exchange.

‘Martil! Step back!’ he roared, seeing men close in from in front and to the right, now Warrun and Garif had fallen. The words were barely out of his mouth when Martil whirled, the Dragon Sword beheading one man, then he ducked and darted back, blocking a blow and rolling his left-hand sword over a shield to open the throat behind. Having created some space for himself, he stepped back, and invited more to attack him.

Conal glanced over every so often. It was a chilling sight. With no armour, Martil could move far faster than men weighed down by mail hauberks, steel helmets and heavy shields of wood reinforced with strips of steel. He had taken a couple of blows, but the strange magic of Barrett meant his darkened, toughened skin had been barely scratched. And the Dragon Sword was just fearsome. Men tried everything to counter it, even trying to block blows with both sword and shield. The Dragon Sword just sheared right through, nothing could stop it. The gate tunnel became filled with bodies, dead and wounded, screaming and begging for help, while those beyond stepped over them and pushed forwards.

Conal’s men fought as hard as they could. But the soldiers they were facing, despite the fact they were tired from marching, first through the country and then through the town—all with little food and water—were fit and strong and skilled. Conal’s men could not hold the line for long before being cut down, and despite Martil’s efforts, they were inexorably pushed back. And the wider the tunnel became, the harder it was to hold. Soldiers gave Martil as wide a berth as they could, instead attacking the men at the edges. Conal, by virtue of being close to Martil, was able to stay alive. Martil had inflicted terrible losses on the soldiers, but he was being forced to back away now, or dash from one side to the other to take the fight to the soldiers. Conal had the tunnel wall to protect his left but his right side was almost undefended—fear of Martil was the thing keeping most soldiers away from there.

‘Where are you, Rocus?’ Conal moaned, as a soldier slammed blows against his shield.

Merren could not see what was going on, but she could hear it. And if waiting for news from the battle in the street had been bad, this was far worse. Rocus was not yet in sight, although she could hear the trumpets exhorting them on. Without thinking about herself, or Karia, she dashed into the gatehouse, Karia close behind, and ran into the passage that took them to the murder holes. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom. Sendric was there, along with a dozen boys, handing out javelins from a rack on the wall and telling them to hurl them down. Merren ignored what they were doing and peered down, trying to see what was happening. She caught a glimpse of Martil, spinning and ducking, his swords inflicting damage, but she could see he was being forced back, ever backwards.

‘What can we do?’ she asked Sendric.

The Count threw a javelin down one of the holes and cursed.

‘They know we’re up here. The men behind the front lines have their shields up, and we can’t hurt them,’ he exclaimed. ‘The boys can’t throw them hard enough to penetrate a shield.’

‘What about the oil?’ Merren pointed to where cauldrons were balanced high over wide troughs that led to the murder holes.

Sendric shrugged. ‘It would do no more than merely annoy them. It has to be hot to have any effect.’

‘I can heat it up,’ Karia said confidently.

Merren opened her mouth to tell her no, but Karia had already closed her eyes and pointed at the nearest cauldron.

‘Ready now!’ she declared.

Merren looked at the cauldron, shocked, for it was a huge thing, easily big enough for a man to sit in and not be seen over the top. But steam was rising from it and the bottom was glowing a faint red.

‘H—how did you do that?’ she asked faintly.

‘I just heated up the metal, then the gooey stuff inside,’ Karia shrugged.

Sendric did not bother asking questions, he just ran to the counterweight and hauled on the chain. Steaming, bubbling oil ran out of the cauldron, into a giant stone trough and out three different murder holes, a solid stream of it that was starting to give off smoke, and a thick, rancid smell.

Screams, horrifying, agonised screams from below showed how effective it was.

‘What is that noise?’ Karia gasped.

Merren grabbed Karia and dragged her back out onto the battlements.

‘What’s going on?’ she wailed. ‘Where’s Martil?’

But Merren could not answer. There was still no sign of Rocus and his men, while more of Gello’s soldiers were still pushing their way into the gate tunnel.

‘There!’ Karia pointed again, to where the first horses were threading their way past the fire wagons, and galloping towards the waiting light cavalry, who charged to meet them.

‘At last!’ Merren breathed, but she glanced down, to where the sounds of fighting were getting closer. Would it be in time?

Martil was able to pause and catch his breath when the boiling oil caught a dozen soldiers. The sight and sound of their horrible deaths checked the attack, and allowed Conal and the other older men to push close again. They were being forced back with every blow, and Martil was constantly in danger of being cut off. Only his awareness of the battle around him, gained through long experience, ensured he kept out of their reach. He watched a few charred, blackened creatures that were once men flop around in the oil until their horrified comrades put them out of their misery and his only thought was relief at the respite it had given them. He was breathing heavily, although the smell of burned flesh was thick in his throat, the coppery tang of blood just overlaying it. A score of the old men were down, many dead, some badly wounded and unable to fight. The others were understandably nervous, especially the ones in the front row.

‘Help will be here soon,’ Martil called, unsure if he was right but knowing he needed to bolster their spirits. They had nowhere to run, but that did not mean they would hold firm. These were not men who had had days to prepare for battle. These were elderly, overweight men who had thought themselves safe.

‘They’ll keep fighting,’ Conal assured him. The old bandit’s shield was dented, while his sword only had a little blood on it—but he was still alive. ‘Keep fighting, lads! If a one-handed old drunk like me can do it, surely you can! Everyone’s depending on you!’

‘We can do this! Hold fast!’ Martil added. ‘Just stand with me.’

Jennar was frustrated at the lack of progress, and horrified by the losses they had suffered. The townsfolk could return at any moment. He needed both the security of the walls and, more importantly, the security of having captives inside. The good news was, the defenders seemed to be old and frail. If it weren’t for the madman with the Dragon Sword, they would be through already.

‘We just have to kill one man! The others are not a threat. Now get him!’ he ordered.

His men surged forward, more eager to get past the murder holes than to come to grips with the demon with the magic Sword, but whatever the motivation, it was sending many men into the attack. More fell under the Dragon Sword as it cut through metal, flesh and bone as easily as a hot knife through butter. But to either side, the man’s elderly warriors were cut down and pushed back, unable to match their younger counterparts.

Still the old men stood their ground, cutting and cleaving, being cheered and encouraged by a grey-haired man with a battered shield and a dented helm, who had stood beside the madman with the Dragon Sword since the battle began. Somehow, as if by magic, the old men held firm, way past when Jennar thought they would break. But break they did, at last, and he could see daylight beyond.

‘Sir! Cavalry’s at our rear! They’ll be onto us before long!’ one of his sergeants bellowed, pointing to where the handful of light cavalry Jennar had rescued from the trap were being cut apart by a much larger force.

‘We have time enough! Capture the Queen and they will surrender!’ Jennar gestured the men forwards and drew his sword. It was time to lead the attack himself.

Barely a score of men remained with Martil, the others were dead or wounded, and they could not stay together—Jennar’s men had cut their line in two. Most managed to climb the stairs to the gatehouse, gaining a haven of sorts, as well as reinforcements as Sendric appeared from the gatehouse, along with a dozen boys armed with spears, and blocked the stairs. It would be a feeble defence; Merren could see these would be brushed aside swiftly once the soldiers attacked in numbers.

The bulk of the soldiers were only thinking about revenge though. Instead of turning for the stairs, guarded by the exhausted old men and a handful of boys, they chased after Martil and his men, wanting to kill the man who had cut down so many of their comrades. These soldiers were also tired and chasing Martil across a courtyard was far easier than assaulting a set of stairs, particularly as they could see the women and children running into the keep.

‘Leave him! Go for the stairs! The Queen’s up there!’

Martil could hear their officer shouting, the cry taken up by the sergeants as well, but most of their men either ignored it or were too tired to respond or change direction. If he had been watching from the safety of the wall, Martil would have been pleased. As it was, he was just intent on staying alive. One by one the old men around him were cut down, until it was just him and Conal, who was staggering on weary legs now, but who still kept his shield high protecting Martil’s back. A sword blow cracked a bone in his leg and he fell with a cry, a fall which saved his life, as another sword was swinging to take his head, but just caught him a heavy, yet glancing blow on the helm instead. He went down in a heap and the soldiers stepped over him to get at Martil.

Martil heard Conal’s cry and knew he stood alone, dozens of men around him. He was not thinking about death, about Merren or Karia—his mind was empty.

His swords spun in a manoeuvre he had only tried once before, the eight-sides-at-once pattern, weaving a glittering web of steel about himself as he spun on the spot. Men dared not step too close, for the blades were going too fast to judge—and if the Dragon Sword was the one that came around, no shield was going to save them. They jabbed and lunged nervously, sure that someone else was going to strike the killer blow.

Frustrated, Jennar pushed his way through the men, shoving some back towards the stairs, where the handful of men who had obeyed his orders were being kept at bay by the remaining defenders.

‘The Queen! Get the Queen!’ he roared at them, but they stubbornly insisted on trying to fight Martil.

Desperately, Jennar forced his way to the front, as the Dragon Sword eviscerated the man before him. The only way to stop this foolishness was to kill the man. He drew back his sword and waited for a chance to strike.

Up on the wall, Merren watched Martil’s desperate fight with a mixture of pride and horror. Pride that this man was her Champion, and surely no other warrior could have stood alone this long against those odds. Horror at the thought he must die soon, for although Rocus’s men were in the gate tunnel now, they could not reach Martil in time.

Beside her, Karia had cried out as Conal had fallen, and now she saw Martil was alone, only his speed, his swords and Barrett’s magic saving him from death.

‘Don’t watch,’ Merren said thickly, not wanting her to see Martil die. But Karia tore free of Merren’s grip.

‘No!’ she screamed, and thrust her hand towards Martil.

Martil was aware of the men around him, aware of the swords reaching for him, but he could not pause or alter his pattern, for, once started, it could not change. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the officer step in, lunging towards him, and knew the blade would sink deep. He was bracing himself for the impact when fire erupted around him. Staggering to a stop, almost falling, he stared in shock at a wall of fire completely encasing him, no more than an arm’s length from his body. He looked up to the wall to see Karia pointing at him and understood what was happening. Understood, too, that what she was doing must be taking an enormous effort.

‘Karia! Don’t!’ he screamed, his voice hoarse, his mouth and throat dry, his breath heaving from the massive exertion he had put himself through. But he knew she could not hear him.

Jennar was shocked at the wall of fire that erupted in front of him, blocking his killing blow, but at least the barrier achieved what he had been unable to do—make his men turn away from Martil and look towards the stairs, and the Queen on the wall.

‘Leave him! Come on!’ Jennar led the rest of his men in a charge towards the wall, only to see the first horsemen erupt out of the gate tunnel and charge into them.

‘Hold them off! Get the Queen and it’s all over!’ he shouted, shoving men over to form a crude defensive wall, while he bounded towards the stairs.

Merren watched, astonished, as Karia summoned a wall of fire to protect Martil, amazed that someone so small could do such a thing. She was dimly aware that the fighting was getting closer. The only thing keeping the soldiers back were the long spears of the boys being jabbed at the leading soldiers while the old men used their shields as weapons. She could also see the first of Rocus’s men burst out of the gate tunnel. She recognised Rocus, his armour smeared with blood, as he drove his horse into the soldiers, the warhorse kicking and biting, as it had been trained to do, Rocus hacking down with his sword.

Then Karia collapsed, just fell sideways, and Merren had to lunge to catch her. She saw how white the little girl was, how her breath was shaky and her skin clammy, and prayed she had not killed herself in her efforts.

Martil saw Karia fall and in that instant, the flames that had protected him died away. He saw Merren cradle the little girl, saw the fear on Merren’s face and had only one thought: to get to them.

Martil’s men were flooding into the gate tunnel now, charging into the soldiers, using the weight and speed of their horses to smash through. But a score or so of soldiers were still trying to get up the stairs and grab the Queen—who held Karia. Martil sprinted across the courtyard, the ache in his lungs, the soreness of his arms, and the sting of the many wounds he had taken all forgotten.

The remaining soldiers in the courtyard had had enough and were surrendering, only the handful on the stairs keeping their swords in hand. Martil tore into those men like an animal. Any who got in his way were sliced down without a second thought, whether they were fighting or not. He drove himself up the stairs, the Dragon Sword carving a bloody path ahead of him. The first few men he cut down from behind. The next tried to fight back but the Dragon Sword sliced apart their defences and their flesh. Other men jumped or threw themselves from the stairs rather than face him, but up ahead, men and boys were being killed or pushed aside by the leading soldiers.

Martil shouted as the last surviving defender, Count Sendric, took an overhand sword blow to the shoulder that knocked him flat on his back. With a clear path to the Queen, the soldier who had downed Sendric raced forward. Martil hurled the Dragon Sword, which spitted the man cleanly, only the hilt hitting the man’s mail stopping it from going further. He used his ordinary sword, as well as his anger and fear, to cut down another soldier, and shoulder-charged another pair off the stairs.

The only man left was the officer, who raced over to where his soldier lay and reached for the Dragon Sword.

‘Stay back, or I will kill the girl and the Queen!’ he shouted.

Martil ran on, hurdling the screaming wounded, ignoring the man’s voice.

‘Then I’ll kill you with the Sword!’ Jennar had no intention of harming the Queen, or the girl, but they were his ticket to victory. With the Dragon Sword at her throat, these men would surrender. And he could return both the Sword and the Queen to Gello in triumph. There was no way this warrior, no matter how good he was, could stand against him. He had seen how the Dragon Sword made a man invincible. He grasped the Sword, a smile on his lips as he imagined his victory—then screamed in pain and horror as the dragon on its hilt came to life, sinking golden fangs into his hand.

Jennar reeled backwards, holding his bleeding hand, not realising he was moving towards the Queen. He looked up to see the blood-smeared warrior running at him, his face twisted in a killing rage. Jennar felt fear for the first time that day.

‘Enough! It’s over! I give up!’ he cried.

Martil heard him say something but he did not bother to listen. He reached down and hauled the Dragon Sword out of the soldier’s body at the run, then brought it around in a massive blow that had all his anger and fear behind it. Jennar’s body, arms still raised in surrender, was sheared in half. It toppled off the wall and fell to the courtyard below. Martil did not even bother to look. Instead he dropped the Sword and fell to his knees beside Merren.

‘How is she?’ he croaked.

Merren looked up, into a face from a nightmare. Martil’s skin was still a strange colour, and it was also stained with blood, and worse, from the fighting. Yet the real agony was in his eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.

A noise behind him made her look up, to see Rocus and a pair of his men pounding up the stairs, swords in hand.

‘It’s over! They’ve given up!’ the big guardsman announced.

Martil took Karia from Merren’s arms and began to hurry down the stairs, heedless of the moaning, bleeding wounded he had to step on.

‘I need a healer! Now!’ he roared.

22

The healers and priests were busy indeed that night—and into the next morning. By necessity, as well as by Merren’s orders, they concentrated on the townsfolk and Martil’s men first. The dead were many, the worst casualties being from the battle in the keep. Only a dozen of the men who had stood with Martil in the gate tunnel were still alive, all of them wounded, including Conal. Sendric was on his feet, his broken arm in a sling, while three of the boys who had stood with the Count were dead, all the others wounded. As well as the dead in the keep, there had been many deaths in the street. Rocus had lost three more guardsmen, Wime two more of his militia, Sirron was gone, as were another two of the farm boys, while some thirty townsfolk had died in the fighting. At least another hundred had wounds of some kind, from simple cuts to limbs lost, to wounds in the chest and belly that would kill them without divine intervention.

The death toll from Havrick’s force was also high, especially in the keep, where barely fifty infantrymen survived the carnage. Even more were wounded, and, without attention, dozens died through the night. Merren ensured they had water, and that their comrades could bind up their wounds. But for those with chest and belly wounds, or missing limbs, there was nothing to be done. All the healers and priests were busy with the town’s wounded and their own army surgeons did not arrive until it was too late for many. Even then, there was only so much those two men could do.

Merren had thought victory would have brought celebration and an end to worry but she was discovering it just brought more problems to solve. Admittedly the alternative—to be dead or a prisoner of Havrick’s—was far worse, but that was scant comfort for the families of men who had been killed. Sendric was still shaky, and unable to help, while only one of the town councillors had survived the desperate fight at the keep, although he had lost a hand. The others had stood their ground and died. Wime was responsible for picking up the dead and clearing away the burned wagons and for finding all the wounded. Rocus was attempting to organise the surviving fighters and collect arms and armour. Tarik was watching the many prisoners they had taken.

Martil, meanwhile, was beside Karia’s bed, and refused to leave.

A priest had been found, and had announced she was exhausted, but would recover, with some bed rest, food and water. Martil just sat beside her, blood oozing from a dozen crudely-bandaged wounds. None were deep, thanks to Barrett’s protective magic, for at least two might have killed him otherwise. He ignored them, save to tighten the bandages around the ones that threatened to drip onto Karia. Otherwise he just sat there, watching her.

The night turned into day and Martil barely noticed when Merren walked into the room.

‘Captain, she is resting. But there are many other people who need you,’ Merren said quietly. ‘I need your help. There is much to be done.’

Martil turned around and she could instantly see he was on the edge. Pain, fatigue and worry had eaten deep lines into his face, while blood, smoke and sweat had mingled to leave him looking filthy, and wild.

‘She sacrificed herself for me. That officer was going to kill me. And she saved me,’ he said thickly.

‘And you saved me—you saved all of us. The families out there can talk of nothing but the way you held off fifty men by yourself. There is little celebration going on—too many are dead or wounded—but you gave us a victory.’

Martil shivered as he thought again of those desperate moments, when only the fear of what the Dragon Sword could do kept the men away from him. He also shuddered at the thought of some of the men he had killed in anger. Havrick had been trying to surrender, as had the other officer. Havrick may have deserved to die but the last man…

‘That fighting brings out a side in me that I do not wish to see. I wanted to kill. When Sirron died, I was looking forward to taking out my anger on those men. And that last man—he was unarmed. And I cut him in half,’ he said shakily.

‘It was in the heat of battle. You had nearly died, and you had seen the men around you cut down. Karia had fallen and he was threatening to kill both her and me,’ Merren pointed out.

‘Excuses. I cannot make excuses for myself. The Dragon Sword makes it easy to kill, and I am beginning to enjoy the effect it has, both on me and the men who face me,’ he groaned. ‘This was why I never wanted to fight again.’

Merren decided to stop offering understanding and appeal to his sense of duty.

‘Martil, I need your help,’ she said again. ‘What are we to do with the prisoners? Some of those who lost friends and relatives in the battle want them strung up. Barrett wants us to recruit them. The Dragon Sword can help us decide if they are serious about helping us or just want to escape a noose.’

‘I can’t leave her. I have to be here when she wakes up.’ Martil looked up at Merren, wanting her to understand. ‘I killed her father. I took her away from the only true home she ever knew. By all rights she should hate me. And yet she nearly sacrificed herself to save me.’

Merren took a deep breath. She had to be careful here. To say the wrong thing might send him over the edge. ‘She loves you. You may not have fathered her but as far as she is concerned, you are her guardian.’

Martil turned away, back towards Karia, and she could see his shoulders trembling. Instantly she knew that just Karia was not enough. There had to be more. Carefully she walked over and placed her hand on his left shoulder, for a bloody bandage covered the right. She looked down to see tears running down his face. He was not sobbing, just letting them cut through the blood and sweat and grime and then drip onto the floor.

‘So many dead, so many wounded, either at my hand or at my command, and yet I weep because of a small girl,’ he said quietly, almost in wonder.

‘Because you are a good man,’ Merren said softly, feeling her throat tighten. This was a deliberate thing she was doing, yet at the same time it was instinctive. She did feel an attraction to this contradictory man: so deadly in battle, so vulnerable away from it. She stroked his face gently and he reached up to her wordlessly. She eased herself onto his lap, careful to put her weight on his right leg, for the left thigh was bandaged heavily, blood seeping through. He held her tight, and she stroked his face, wiping away some of the dried blood and grime, loosened by tears. He was the child at that moment, she recognised. She had to be delicate, not only because of his physical wounds. She had to judge precisely where to draw the line, when she was becoming aware that she did not really want to draw a line.

Martil had felt lost, drowning in a sea of despair. He had focused on Karia because he felt that was the one thing that could stop him going mad. But to feel a simple embrace, the effect it had on him was dramatic: almost at once the tension began to leave him and he began to feel himself returning, as if from a long journey. As awareness returned, he detected the faint scent of lavender on her clothes, and became acutely aware that his head was pillowed on her breasts. Exhausted beyond endurance though he was, the embrace still began to move beyond one of simple comfort, and he could not help but notice that her thighs were on his, and his hand was on her hip. He looked up and saw she was aware of this also.

Merren knew she had to get up soon but her careful calculations were becoming harder to make. He was undoubtedly a worthy Champion but she saw him now as more than that and felt tempted to see where things would go.

‘What’s going on?’ Karia yawned and stretched.

Merren instantly stood up and crossed over to where a tray of food was ready.

‘We have some food here,’ she called out.

Martil, meanwhile, had dropped to his knees.

‘Daddy! You’re all right! I was so afraid!’ Karia hugged him and he held her back, feeling her small arms tighten around his neck and her head nestled into his cheek.

‘You saved my life. You were so brave.’ He kissed her forehead and looked into her big brown eyes. Now the words came easily to him. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’ Karia burrowed into his shoulder. He had said it! Part of her wondered if this was a dream, but just the smell of him alone—blood, smoke and sweat—told her this was real. Finally, someone would take care of her, not let her go, not leave her again.

Merren watched them. She could not tell whether their tears were of laughter, relief, sadness, love, or all four. She knew she could not stop hers falling, either.

The guilt and the responsibility for what had happened, for the wailing families and the wounded men, those were hers. She almost wished she had not met the women at the camp and begun to understand them.

‘Merren, are you all right?’ Karia asked and Merren looked down to see both Martil and Karia watching her.

‘I’m fine,’ she smiled, wiping away a tear from her eye.

‘Come here,’ Karia invited, holding out a hand to her. ‘It always feels better when you have a hug.’

Merren laughed and sat on the bed beside Karia.

Merren felt both arms go around her—one small and soft, the other long and muscled. They stayed like that for a long time, drawing strength from each other and giving strength to each other. But much as it helped, Merren felt a flicker of fear. It was going to be extremely difficult to keep control of her relationship with them both.

Martil wanted to go out and see what was happening, but Merren ordered him to take a bath and get his wounds seen to properly. The priests were exhausted, as were Barrett and the town’s two wizards, who had turned up during the night on Havrick’s baggage train and immediately begun working to help the wounded, but a healer was summoned who stitched Martil’s wounds, smeared a herbal poultice over the worst of them, then rebandaged them. Every muscle in his body was aching, and where those were not aching, his stitches stung and pulled. But with clean clothes and the blood and smoke washed from his face, hands and hair, he at least looked like a winning general. Karia was still exhausted and stayed in bed, although part of that was because he did not want her to see what was outside.

He found Rocus in the courtyard, along with scores of wounded men, including Conal, who was obviously well enough to sit up and tell everyone how he had single-handedly—literally, single-handedly—won the battle, and managed to keep Martil alive. Around him were many of Martil’s original force: guardsmen, hunters and militia, men who had fought well and bravely. With them too were farmers and townsfolk, who had defeated Gello’s soldiers with almost no training. They cheered him, even though many were hurting and some still bleeding. He made sure he spent time with as many as he could before moving on to see what Rocus had been doing. The big guardsman had taken over the stables and turned it into an armoury. They now had enough weapons and armour to equip a small army, although much of it was bloodstained and would need to be scrubbed with sand and vinegar if it was to avoid rust.

Martil embraced him. ‘Thank you. You arrived just in time.’

The big guardsman flushed, his cheek bearing a small scar from a wound taken at the end of the battle.

‘We’ll follow you anywhere, Captain. Just say the word,’ he promised.

Martil patted him on the back and moved on.

Wime had been working hard. The streets were now cleared of bodies, and two score of tired men were washing away the blood and other stains from the cobbles, using bucket upon bucket of water. The bodies had been taken outside on wagons, and a mass grave dug for Gello’s men. The townsfolk were being buried on the other side of town, where a mound would be raised to honour the dead. Tarik had the prisoners do much of the digging, which at least kept them busy and out of trouble. But Wime had become involved here as a militia officer.

‘I have a score of the prisoners in chains already, men that have been identified by townsfolk as rapists, thieves and murderers,’ he said. ‘We shall have to deal with them soon and go through the others.’

‘Do you think some will be willing to serve with us?’ Martil asked.

Wime wiped away grime and sweat from his forehead. ‘I don’t think so, Captain. Besides, why do we need them? Now we have won here, hundreds will flock to us.’

Martil forced a smile. ‘You are doing well, my friend. Make sure you get some rest.’ He watched Wime go and touched the Dragon Sword absently.

He managed to find Barrett using his magic to help some of the many wounded. The mage looked exhausted and Martil made a point of clapping him on the back.

‘I have to thank you, wizard,’ Martil told him seriously. ‘People may be talking about what happened at the keep but as far as I am concerned, and as I keep telling everyone, the only reason I was able to get there in time—and the only reason I am still walking and talking—is thanks to your magic.’

Barrett smiled. ‘I do appreciate that,’ he admitted.

Martil smiled back. ‘I will not forget what you did. Without your help, both Karia and Merren would be captured or even dead. I want to shake your hand.’

Barrett made no move to do so. ‘I want you to know I have nothing against you. But I only used my magic to help Karia and Merren, and because I see how important you are to our cause. I do not want to be your friend. We are rivals, not friends. Despite all my warnings, you have not stopped your pursuit of Merren. Well, battle has taught me one thing. I am not going to live my life just dreaming about doing things. No more will I hide my feelings. I shall be doing all in my power to show Merren that she should choose me, instead of you.’

Martil took back his hand, shocked at the mage’s words. ‘I thought you told me that Merren was not some prize to be fought over?’

Barrett shrugged. ‘That was before the battle. Look, I have nothing against you, but I will always regret it if I do not try to win her heart. If you can accept that, then we can work together.’

Martil swallowed back the words that crowded into his mind. He still owed the wizard a debt. ‘I think you’ll find that it has nothing to do with either of us. It is all down to what Merren wants to do.’

‘Then we shall leave it up to her,’ Barrett paused for a moment. ‘I do regret this. And after Merren rejects you and chooses me, I do hope you will not feel too bitter about it. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’

Martil watched him go wordlessly. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Recruitment was going well. Young men were rushing to join up for the cause.

And Duke Gello liked to think they would have joined him of their own free will, even if they had known the real reason. He had paid the country’s bards to spread tales of how every other country was jealous of Norstalos. How they had joined together to steal the Dragon Sword and only the bravery of Duke Gello had saved it. But now, the stories said, the other countries might attack and it was the duty of Norstalines to protect their country. And he was impressed with the way the people responded to the bards. Many of these were famous, mobbed wherever they went thanks to the country’s fascination with sagas. Anything they said was treated as the truth. It was enlightening to see how many came forward just because the bards encouraged them.

He decided to take total control of the bards. Gello had always had a fundamental distrust of a group of people who earned their living wandering around, spreading gossip. He had nothing against the sagas—he had to admit, he did enjoy those—but he was not going to let a mob of undisciplined bards control what the people knew about the rebellion and his rule. So all bards had to be registered with him, on pain of death. Then they had to agree only to announce the news he wanted. There would be no lurid tales of rebellion up north. Instead, he wanted stories spread about the treachery of the Tetrans and how the Avish, Berellians and Rallorans were scheming against Norstalos. As a sweetener, they could expect regular payment from the palace—and the freedom to perform any sort of saga they wanted, from his list of favourites.

Meanwhile, his hold on the country tightened. The rebellion was confined to some woods, and he had a powerful force up there hunting them down. It would only be a matter of time before his cousin was either dead or being dragged back to face his justice.

It was now autumn, and tax time. Tax gatherers were heading out to tally harvests and shopkeepers’ profits, taking two shares in ten in either goods or coin. Gello doubled this. It caused plenty of complaints but, after he had hanged a few people, the muttering was confined to the marketplace.

To stop people trying to complain about the tax increase and to ensure there would be no further problems, he ordered all town councils disbanded, and removed all militia. Instead, the garrison commander in each town became responsible for the town council’s duties—which Gello had simplified just to taking taxes—and for making sure the streets were safe. Again, Gello wanted that made easy. Anyone who tried to speak out against him was to be arrested, anyone caught committing a crime or was on the streets after dark was enrolled in the army.

The country groaned under the weight of the new taxes, but dared not speak up, for fear of the new laws. It was just the way he wanted it to be.

He was a little concerned at the delay in a final victory for Havrick, especially as cartloads of wounded kept rolling back to their barracks. But only a little. There was still plenty of time before winter made it difficult for campaigning. A Norstaline autumn was traditionally long, warm and mild. He had been infuriated with the reports of Barrett holding up the search, and how Havrick’s attempt to press the local wizards into service were proving futile. He had never had much time for wizards, generally despising them as a weak bunch with little ability, but he had to admit, Barrett was proving a handful. And he could offer no help. Since Tellite’s death, wizards had been avoiding him. Apparently most had gone into hiding.

And then came the news he had longed for. The Queen, showing all the military judgement he expected of a woman, had allowed herself to be trapped in the town of Sendric.

Victory could not be far away.

But he did not intend to rely just on Havrick. His dear mother had always taught him to have a plan in reserve and he had several already in motion.

He sent strong patrols north, to block off the passes leading to the northeast district around Sendric. These patrols had orders to turn back any men riding in groups. There would be no reinforcements arriving for the rebels.

He also had a blacksmith forge him a new Dragon Sword. The man had been labouring on it for weeks, in secret. He would be killed afterwards, of course, but far better to let him think he would be paid with a sack of gold instead.

He also sent for Father Prent.

The priest, who had helped him so nearly recapture the Queen, had proved to be a useful ally over the past few weeks. And the two of them had discovered they had a great deal in common. A mutual love of power, for one. After some early discussions, and verbal fencing, they had decided there was much they could do to help each other.

‘How are the plans for my coronation going ahead?’ Gello asked, once the priest had been seated and offered a glass of wine. ‘Are you sure the Archbishop will not try anything?’

That had been another minor concern. The Kings and now Queen—of Norstalos had always been crowned by the Archbishop of Norstalos.

Many of the peasants—and quite a few of the nobles—seemed to think that having the blessing of Aroaril was important. Gello could not care less. But he wanted to be crowned King and knew that, unless it was done by the church, there would always be whispers of illegitimacy. Worse was the possibility that priests would begin speaking against him from their pulpits. While he had no qualms about rounding up such treacherous wretches and having them executed, he knew it would upset the people. Far better to keep the church quiet.

The Archbishop had flatly refused to crown Gello while Merren was still alive. So he would be crowned by Father Prent, then he could dismiss the Archbishop, appoint Prent in his place, and plausibly say that he had been crowned by the Archbishop. Then, with Prent’s compliance, he could force the priesthood to tell their congregations it was a holy duty to obey his command to wage war on every other country.

His one fear had been that the Archbishop would tell his priests to start preaching that it was the people’s duty to support Queen Merren. But here Gello had the help of Prent, who knew how to work the church’s political process. He had called in a host of favours, reminded many senior churchmen of their dark little secrets and managed to paralyse the church in debate over whether it should join the struggle over the throne, or remain apart, responsible only for the country’s spiritual needs. With the church effectively sidelined, and the Archbishop unable to force his council of bishops to a decision, the way was clear for Gello to be crowned King.

He wanted the news that Norstalos had a King again to travel swiftly around the country. To that end he had prepared a fine ceremony, with plenty of free food and drink, and orders for every bard within travelling distance to attend. He had already written what they needed to tell the people.

‘It will be a wonderful ceremony, sire, and then you will officially be the King,’ Prent smiled. ‘Norstalos can take its position as the leader of the world.’

‘Indeed.’ Gello allowed himself to dream of that moment. They discussed a few other items, such as an increase to the Archbishop’s salary once Prent took over, before the priest had to return to his duties. Gello waited until the priest had left, then waved for a junior officer to come over.

‘I want to know the moment news arrives from the north,’ he instructed.

Martil had the captured soldiers moved out of the town, where they made a camp near the mass grave of their comrades. Having so many soldiers inside the city was uncomfortable for many of the townsfolk, especially those who had lost loved ones in the battle, and security was becoming a nightmare.

Once outside, the painstaking process of finding those guilty of crimes began. There were many farmers and townsfolk ready to lynch anyone wearing Gello’s red surcoat, and it was no good asking them to identify the regimental badge their attacker had worn. It took the experience of Wime and his senior sergeants, as well as help from both Barrett and particularly Father Quiller, to try and determine guilt or innocence—for almost every man accused declared he had done nothing more than stand back while his comrades stole, raped and murdered.

It was distressing to many of the victims, and it took almost a week of hearings, each one going for a full day, before they were able to try every man. All were then packed into the dungeons beneath the keep; even those judged innocent of serious crime, while they waited to hear their fate.

‘This is a real problem,’ Wime addressed the Queen’s council, which had shrunk a little. Merren and Martil were there of course, as was Conal, although he was still limping. A large bruise on Sendric’s face and an arm in a sling were the only remnants of the Count’s injuries but he was quieter than usual. The Count would be appointing a new town council in the morning, so for now Barrett, Wime, Tarik, Rocus and Father Quiller were the only other councillors. The old priest had proved to be a huge help in the days after the battle and Merren respected his calm opinions. Karia was back almost to full strength, and certainly to full noise, but was taking an afternoon nap, as Barrett was teaching her more and more advanced magic. What had happened at the battle in the keep had told the wizard that he needed to take her training to the next level.

Training with Barrett—and afternoon naps—were the only times Martil was willing to let her out of his sight. He would rather spend time playing with her than anything else—mainly because he was racked with guilt after the battle. Not only did he feel responsible for those who had died but he was also tormented by the way he had lost control of his anger and killed unarmed men. It was nothing compared to the aftermath of Bellic but it was certainly enough for those who knew him, such as Merren, to notice. Each time he felt as though he was going over the edge, Karia would pull him back from the brink. Since saving his life in the battle, he had been able to show his feelings towards her. He loved it when she gave him a hug or a kiss and he could not help but hug her back, kiss her cheek or forehead when they were reading together. For her part, she seemed to take it as no more than her due and he found she was calling him ‘Dad’ much more often. He never got tired to hearing it. He had been reluctant to leave her to attend council that afternoon but what they were discussing was not really for her ears, anyway.

‘We have more than three hundred soldiers here, counting the wounded that are going to live. Almost two hundred and fifty of those have committed some sort of crime, from murder to stealing food from farmers and townsfolk. What are we going to do with them? We must bear in mind this is a problem not just for now, but for the future. The punishment for murder and rape is death, but if it becomes known that we killed five out of six men who surrendered to us, we shall never again get any of Gello’s men to give up,’ Martil said.

‘Do we just let them go?’ Rocus snorted decisively.

‘Aye. These scum deserve everything they get,’ Barrett agreed. He had been using his magic to discern the truth, to pick out the signs that men were lying, and what he had heard had left him shaken and changed his view on winning them over to the cause. ‘They must be punished. We did not fight and suffer so murderers and rapists could join us. That is not what the people want. We might as well leave Gello in charge of the country.’

His declaration received rumbles of approval from around the table. Martil was reluctant to say anything. Since their little confrontation after the battle, he and Barrett had been going out of their way to avoid each other. However, he knew he must take a stand here.

‘Normally I would agree. But I must ask you this. When I arrived, many of you knew me as a Butcher of Bellic. I led one of five regiments into a Berellian town, not unlike Sendric, which we utterly destroyed, leaving not one person alive. I would say that crime is far worse than any Gello’s men have committed. Yet I not only lead your army, but women and children cheer me in the street.’ He sighed. ‘I cannot begin to tell you how badly Bellic affected me. The guilt will never leave me—nor should it. It was the same for many of the men I ordered to attack the town. I cannot make up for Bellic. I can only try. I know you are angry at these men, but perhaps some of them feel the same as I.’

Silence greeted his impassioned plea, and all eyes turned to Merren.

‘I hear what you are saying, Martil. It is a bitter irony that you are asked to sit in judgement on men whose crimes were no worse than yours. But I do believe you are different from most men, and that Bellic was a different situation. You were finishing a long, bitter war, where the Berellians had done exactly the same to many of your towns. Gello’s men were attacking their own people because they could, not because those people were defiant, or rebelling. Finally, we have the evidence of the Dragon Sword. It chose you as its wielder. That proves you must be a better man.’

Martil smiled thinly. ‘My Queen, thank you, but there is no need to make excuses for me. I have the blood of innocents on my hands. So, what if there are some among them who also deeply regret what they did?’

‘What of it?’ Barrett snarled. ‘How can we face the people and tell them we are rewarding those who raped and killed friends and family?’

‘And how can we let men guilty of monstrous crimes join our army?’ Father Quiller pointed out.

Martil laughed, but there was no humour there. ‘You will discover that war makes monsters of us all. You start with the best intentions, and before you know it, you are using the enemy’s weapons against him. You cannot fight a war without ending up with blood on your hands.’ He looked down at his own hands, so recently cleaned. ‘The desire to win, to defeat your opponent, it is what keeps you alive. But it can also lead you down a dangerous path. You don’t just want to win, you want to dominate. Rape and murder are just a step away from that. I have walked that narrow path and seen many good men fall from it. Do not seek to judge a man until you have also walked that path. And there is one more thing to consider. We are talking about killing men who surrendered to us. In most countries such an act would be considered dishonourable at best—or even murder.’

Merren held up her hands, and stopped Barrett’s angry words before they came out.

‘Captain Martil is right—in one respect. The Ralloran Wars should teach us that it is easy to do evil, even when you think you are in the right. Out of respect for what he has done, I agree he may speak to them and give them a chance to atone for their crimes by fighting for us.’

‘My Queen…’ Barrett burst out.

‘I know,’ Merren said gently. ‘But let us remember why we are fighting. If men repent, and prove themselves, then they deserve a second chance. Any that agree to serve with us must first speak with Father Quiller and yourself. If you both agree they are genuine, they may join us. We will not have men who are not truly repentant. Equally, we cannot sit in judgement on men without first giving them that chance. That is my decision. Go now, Martil, and we shall take a short break, to discuss other punishments for these men. But address them all together, not separately. We do not have the time to waste on this.’

Martil bowed and hurried out. He understood how Barrett felt and, in truth, he did not want to lead Havrick’s men. But he knew how easy it was to get caught up in what your comrades were doing, how quickly you could do something evil—and how long it would take to regret it. With the memories of the recent battle so fresh and painful in his mind, he had to at least see if these men felt as he did.

Barrett waited only just long enough to see Martil out of the room before hurrying over to Merren’s side.

‘My Queen, have you thought this through to its logical conclusion? I mean, naturally we owe Martil for what he achieved, but to think of having so many men like that in our army…’

Merren cut him off and moved him down to the far end of the room, out of earshot. ‘Barrett, I know exactly what I am doing.’ She looked at the wizard for a long moment, then sighed. ‘Surely you have noticed what that battle did to Martil. He thinks he is little better than Havrick or Gello. What I am doing now is all part of a scheme to convince Martil he is a better man. By speaking to them together, the pack mentality will rule. There is no way any of them, even those who genuinely regret what they did, will break ranks with their comrades. Martil’s attempt to influence the captured cavalrymen, back at the farm, convinced me of that. So we will still be able to deal with those soldiers as we wish. Meanwhile, Martil will feel relieved that he was able to offer them a second chance. At the moment he is identifying with those men. When they refuse a chance he would have taken, he will know he is a better man than them and perhaps this will help him work with the Sword a little more. It may also help him come to terms with that battle. That result is worth the gamble.’

Barrett bowed deeply. The way her mind worked! He loved her for that. And the thought she was manipulating that oafish Ralloran made his heart feel warm. More than ever he wanted to tell her his true feelings, about how he had loved her in secret for years. ‘Your majesty, can I just say I am in awe of the way your mind works. It is one of only many things I admire about you…’

Merren touched his cheek with her hand. ‘Barrett, I thank you. But this is not the time to talk about such things. We must finish our discussion on punishment for Havrick’s men before Martil returns.’

Barrett nodded in agreement, although all he could think about was the way her hand had felt when she touched his face.

It took a while to bring all the soldiers out of the crowded dungeon and assemble them in the courtyard, under the watchful eye of Tarik and his archers. Chained, hungry and dirty, they stared mutely or belligerently as Martil climbed onto a wagon and spoke to them.

‘I am Captain Martil, known by some as a Butcher of Bellic. That means I was responsible for crimes far worse than the ones many of you have committed. Right now, the Queen and her counsellors debate your punishment. Although you should all know the Norstaline law: rapists and murderers will hang, thieves and arsonists will go to prison. But I offer you another choice. On my hands are more deaths of innocents than all of you put together. Yet I am the Queen’s Champion. I cannot atone for the evil I have done. But I can try. So I say to you: join me. Fight against Gello and you will be freed of your chains. Your crimes will not be forgiven, but they will be forgotten, if you truly regret what was done and want to build a better Norstalos.’

He paused to let that sink in. ‘Who is ashamed of what they have done, and wishes to join me?’

‘If we wanted atonement, we would have called for a priest,’ one man yelled.

‘You have no right to judge us! We are soldiers of the Duke,’ another roared.

They seemed to like this, and many took it up.

‘We do not recognise your slut of a queen! She is not the real ruler! Anyone who helps her is a traitor to Norstalos!’ one man bellowed, and many cheered this.

‘We did nothing wrong! Traitors deserve everything they get, and this whole town has turned traitor to the Duke!’

Martil waited for the uproar to die down. He looked sadly at the shouting men. The mentality of the mob had taken over. Perhaps if he had spoken to each individual man…he cut that thought off. If these men had truly been ashamed of their crimes then nothing could have stopped them from saying so. But he also wondered at the way Gello had managed to pervert the Norstaline sense of superiority to the point where these men believed rape and murder of their own people was justified. Had Gello prepared them to resist the pull of the Dragon Sword? Even if not, he had certainly ensured their loyalty. Clearly, he was not going to persuade them to turn their back on Gello.

‘This is your last chance. Will you join me?’ he shouted.

The howls of protest that followed made him jump down off the cart.

‘Take them back,’ he sighed to Tarik.

‘You tried, sir. But what can you do with a bunch of arrogant bastards who think they deserve to rule the world? Most of them believe the Duke will rescue them before anything can happen,’ Tarik shrugged.

‘Why don’t you think the way they do?’ Martil asked, mystified by their attitude.

Tarik grinned. ‘Guess I’m not part of the upper class. Just a peasant, me. Never went to a fancy school where they teach that murder is all right as long as it’s for Norstalos. And unlike those boys, I’m too smart to believe that “Norstalos is blessed” line when upper-class fools preach it at me all day long.’

Martil smiled. It was strange but he did not feel as bad now. Maybe Merren was right. It was with a lighter heart that he walked back upstairs and reported that not one would join up.

‘We come again to the issue of punishment,’ he finished. ‘These men will not join us but I must warn you that without converting any of Gello’s forces to our side, there is no way we can gather enough men to defeat him within a year.’

There was silence at this. All there knew of the Queen’s wish, that they raise her standard and declare the Dragon Sword, as well as the formation of a New Norstalos. Then those who wished to help her would rally round and she could march on the capital. But they also knew how many men Gello had, and how few they had. Everyone knew how hard it had been to defeat less than one regiment of soldiers. How would they fare against ten times as many?

‘Nevertheless, we must hold firm to the rule of law. To do otherwise will make a mockery of what we are trying to achieve,’ Merren said heavily.

Martil bowed slightly, for his wounds were still sore, and healing slowly.

‘So we kill them all?’

Merren sighed. ‘No, I think I have a better solution. Count Sendric and the newly-formed town council will pass sentence, as would be done in times of peace. If the town passes justice, then it will serve as a warning to Gello’s men that we will not tolerate attacks on ordinary people. They will not be executed. Instead, each will lose their right hand. They will live, but they will never fight against us.’

‘And the thieves and arsonists?’

‘Now we have control of Sendric, my mind naturally turned to the mines in the north. Apart from the gold and silver they supply, I had imagined they could offer recruits for our cause—for each one has a guard company, to protect them from possible goblin attacks. But, on reading the manifests, it appears these guard companies are made up of Avish mercenaries.’ She smiled grimly. ‘It seems while our inns are guarded by Rallorans, our mines are protected by Avish. So I sent a message to the north, using Barrett’s birds. The Avish do not want to exchange well-paid guard duty for another war—and refuse to serve a Ralloran. But the mine owners would be pleased to get more workers—and already have the guards to watch them. So we shall chain the thieves and arsonists and send them north to work in the mines. They will not be able to escape. And once we have taken back the country, we can look at them again.’

‘And the ones who are innocent?’ Barrett asked.

‘They will serve the town—in chains, until they earn trust.’

Martil nodded. It was a masterly compromise and one he approved of. But it would not solve their manpower shortage.

The sentence was carried out swiftly. There was no shortage of volunteers who wanted to help cut the hands off the convicted soldiers, something Merren found vaguely disturbing. The men had their wounds sealed with hot pitch, then were allowed to rest under the supervision of healers for three days before being sent south back to Gello.

Meanwhile, Rocus took his guardsmen and escorted the thieves and arsonists north. The prisoners wore heavy chains around their legs and necks, so it would be a long trip to the mines in the hills. Rocus took horses so he and his men could return swiftly but they expected to be away for at least a week, probably longer.

The ones judged innocent were ‘lucky’ enough to be imprisoned in the dungeons, which were only slightly overcrowded. From here, small groups were made to go out and work in the fields, to try and help farms now stripped of farmers, while others cleaned and repaired armour. Martil knew this would mean few soldiers would want to surrender from now on, but perhaps few would be so eager to kill and rape their own people.

Men were coming in to join the rebellion, but it was hardly a flood. A handful a day, mainly farmers and villagers from the nearby districts, who feared the retribution of Gello.

But there were barely enough men to hold the town—and the maps of northern Norstalos supplied little cheer. It was an impossible problem. Victory in Sendric had not improved their position much.

‘We know from Barrett’s feathered friends that Gello has cut us off by blocking these passes.’ Martil marked how the northeast had been neatly separated from the rest of Norstalos.

‘Not entirely. Men can still get over those hills, it’s just that an army could never bring supplies, as wagons could not make it,’ Sendric pointed out.

‘Still, I think we can discount any help from the south,’ Martil sighed. ‘The only other men are in the two northern towns of Berry and Gerrin. But they both have garrisons. We cannot take enough men to capture those towns, and still leave enough men to defend Sendric. But if we do nothing, we will eventually be destroyed. Gello knows where we are. Once he is sure we are not creating a huge army, he will send his regiments north to smash us.’

Merren threw up her hands in disgust. ‘So what do we do? Will raising my standard help bring men in? Or should we postpone that?’ she snapped. ‘I am beginning to think we are going about this the wrong way. After all, why are we so concerned with what the nobles are doing? They have not supported me in the past. We need to go past the nobles and appeal directly to the ordinary people. I feel victory lies with them. Perhaps if we can get the church to help…’ she trailed off as Karia wandered into the audience chamber, a large crow on her arm.

‘Karia!’ Martil exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

‘I know, I should be resting, but I was bored, so I called to this bird. And he’s been telling me there’s all these men in armour riding towards the town,’ she said calmly. ‘So I thought you’d like to know.’

Everyone looked at Barrett, who had gone white.

‘It can’t be possible,’ he gasped.

‘Well, don’t make excuses—check it!’ Conal growled.

Barrett glared at him, then gestured to the crow. It flew over to his hand and cawed softly.

Everyone held their breath until Barrett turned to them.

‘The bird has seen something. It’s hard to gauge the numbers accurately, for they neither see like us, nor think like us. But I’d say there’s more than one thousand men there.’

The chamber erupted into pandemonium, with everyone demanding answers.

‘Quiet!’ Merren roared, and silence fell once more. ‘How close are they?’

Barrett gulped. ‘I would say barely half a day’s ride from the town. I shall try to find out more.’ He stroked the crow’s head, then carried it to a nearby window, allowing it to fly out.

Merren stood. ‘Then we must make ready. Captain Martil, can we hold the walls this time?’

Martil thought swiftly. ‘We shall have to. This force is too large to let into the town. And doubtless they have been apprised of how we defeated Havrick’s attack. They will not fall for the same trick twice.’

‘Then we must arm the people and man the walls,’ she said calmly. ‘Gentlemen, time is short. Muster your men now.’

Martil watched the others go, and felt sick to the stomach.

‘Perhaps we should use the secret passage out of here,’ he suggested, once he and Merren were alone but for Karia.

‘We cannot leave the townsfolk to die. We must trust in their spirit.’ Merren tried to smile, but it was brittle.

Martil thought of Rocus and his men, still escorting the convicted soldiers north, and sighed. That last battle had been so brutal, so hard. And now they would have to do it again. How had Gello managed to get a regiment so far north unseen?

Merren walked over to him.

‘Can we win this one?’ she asked softly.

Martil wanted to lie, but could not. ‘I doubt it, Merren. With one thousand men, they could launch two attacks, one at the gate and one at the wall. We only have enough men to turn back one. The other will get inside and then it will be slaughter.’

She turned away. Without thinking, he followed her and put his arms around her.

She turned in his arms, so she was facing him. ‘If they get in, will you…will you,’ she paused, unable to go on, and gestured at the Dragon Sword. ‘I will not be dragged before Gello in chains, to be abused and killed like my poor friends.’

Martil felt his despair slide away, to be replaced by anger. ‘We are not finished yet,’ he growled. ‘Perhaps they are cavalry, who might be tricked. Karia, did the crow tell you what banner they were holding?’

Karia, who had been tucking into the refreshments, stopped guiltily.

‘It was a funny one. A golden horse above some plant, on a green background. It sounded pretty.’

Martil let go of Merren and stared at Karia in shock.

‘Isn’t that good? Surely a horse means they are cavalry?’ Merren said.

But Martil had grabbed a quill and was hastily scratching out a design on the map on the table.

‘Was it like that? The banner? Was it that?’ he demanded.

Karia looked at it critically. ‘I think so,’ she finally agreed. ‘Crows aren’t that good at describing things, you know.’

Martil turned to Merren, a strange expression on his face.

‘What is it?’ she demanded.

‘That was my regiment’s personal banner,’ he said slowly, disbelievingly. ‘The horse over a sheaf of wheat, as a nod to my farming background. I wanted to have a sheep, for we had a sheep farm, but Tomon told me nobody would fight under the banner of a sheep.’

‘Your banner? What does that mean?’ Merren demanded.

Martil picked up Karia, who made a grab for an oatcake just in time, so she could keep eating.

‘Let’s go and find out,’ he said.

Barrett confirmed the design of the banner, and word swiftly spread. The despair that had gripped the town turned to wonder, and all crowded onto the walls to watch the small army of men ride into sight.

They stopped, just out of bowshot of the town, and a lead group, about a score of men, dismounted, then walked forward, the banner and a flag of truce held aloft. Martil rode out on Tomon, along with a dozen men in armour. Merren, Father Quiller, Barrett and Karia stayed in the safety of the gate while, above, Tarik and his archers waited with arrows on their strings. But there was no need for that.

As soon as Martil reined in Tomon, the men removed their helms and dropped to one knee in unison.

‘Sergeant Nerrin!’ Martil exclaimed, jumping down from the saddle and striding over to the smiling Ralloran.

‘Yes, Captain?’

‘Sergeant, I won’t deny that you are indeed a welcome sight, but what are you doing here?’ Martil looked across and recognised the men kneeling with Nerrin—it was the caravan guard he had stopped Rocus from fighting, before the battle, as well as the guards he had met back in Wollin and at the Golden Gate. He caught the eye of Corporal Kesbury, who winked at him. ‘I thought I sent you away.’

‘Sir, you ordered me to walk away from your last battle. We obeyed that order but we could not leave Captain Martil to fight alone. We followed you into Berellia, we will follow you anywhere.’

‘But how did you…’

‘We put the word out, and men came running. Let’s just say it will be difficult to hire caravan guards or stop bar fights for the next few months. The bards are telling the people only what Gello wants them to hear but we have seen what Duke Gello is doing to the rest of the country. We know he is no friend of Rallorans and we wanted to see the Queen that you would champion. We also wanted…’ Nerrin paused for a moment before meeting Martil’s eyes.

‘Sir, you must feel it too. Nothing has been right since Bellic. We drink too much, we can’t sleep for the nightmares. We saved our country, and yet here we are, guarding caravans for rich merchants who despise us, or throwing drunken Norstalines out of taverns at the end of the night. Sir, you will not be ordering us to our deaths; our lives finished after Bellic. You will be giving us another chance at life—to serve a queen who is trying to save her throne…’

Martil could not stand to meet Nerrin’s eyes. His words struck home, because they were almost exactly what he had been feeling. He looked around at the Rallorans massed behind Nerrin, seeing many faces he remembered, even if the names did not spring to mind. Men nodded or saluted as they caught his eye.

‘Sir, we have been searching for a purpose since the wars ended. Command us and we shall follow,’ Nerrin said quietly.

Martil still could not meet his gaze. To save himself from speaking, he turned and waved to Merren. At the signal, she and the others rode out, as he marched to meet them.

His chest felt tight, swollen with pride that these men would make such a sacrifice, with fear that he would lead them to their deaths and with hope they would be able to find peace—and win this war for Merren.

‘My Queen, these are the finest fighting men in the land. This is the answer you have been praying for. With them we can take the northern towns, and truly begin this rebellion. But for me to lead them into battle once more is going to be difficult…’

Merren silenced him with a look. ‘You have a second chance to atone for the deeds of Bellic. Do these men not deserve the same chance?’

‘That’s what I mean! Every man of them marched into Bellic. That is why they are here, not heroes and husbands and fathers back in Rallora. I tell you this, because we tried and punished Gello’s men for the crimes of looting, burning, raping and killing. These men are all guilty of that. What makes them different from Gello’s men, I cannot say.’

Merren smiled grimly. ‘I can say. They feel regret and guilt for what they did. No man is all good or all evil; in war, there is a fine line between a hero who kills many to win a battle and a murderer. That these men are here at all tells me they are the good ones. A man who can rape and murder and then go home and raise a family, live a normal life—that is a man I fear. A man who is haunted by what he has done and wants to make amends—that is a man I welcome. That sergeant described how you felt, did he not?’

Martil could only nod, unable to speak.

‘You found Karia, which gave you a purpose. But these men are tormented still. We shall give them a purpose. They cannot make up for what they did, but they can try. For too many years, Norstalos has only cared about birthright and ancestry. A man’s worth has been summed up by his family’s fortune and history. No more. These are the sort of men we want. Tell them.’

Martil had to wait for a moment, until he was sure he could give the orders without his voice breaking. You are the War Captain, you must be strong, he told himself, and was able to turn around and walk back towards Nerrin, his face impassive.

Nerrin’s face showed his emotions: a desperate desire for acceptance, and a dire fear he would be refused.

‘Sergeant, form the men up,’ Martil ordered flatly, giving nothing away.

Nerrin stood and barked out orders, which were taken up instantly. Men jumped down from horses, rammed stakes into the ground to tether them, and then ran to form up. In almost no time, there were ten glittering ranks facing the town, every man wearing armour and helm, carrying sword and shield, some even with bows.

‘Men, I swore an oath that I would never lead Rallorans into battle again,’ he roared. ‘I cannot break that oath.’

He paused for a heartbeat, seeing the ripple of hurt and disappointment moving down the ranks.

‘So from now on, you are all honorary Norstalines!’

It took a moment for this to sink in, then the men roared with laughter, cheered, slapped each other on the back and waved at the townsfolk on the walls, who were watching this.

‘Just because you’re now Norstalines, doesn’t mean you can forget about discipline!’ he bellowed, and the ranks went from raucous cheers to silence, standing rigidly at attention.

He smiled. Despite not wanting to lead Rallorans again, every one of them was a hardened warrior, a survivor of a dozen battles. His job had just become far easier. ‘Salute your Queen!’ he roared, gesturing towards Merren, who nudged her horse forward, so they could see her better.

Instantly more than one thousand men dropped to their knees, and one thousand swords flashed into the air in a formal salute.

‘We are creating a new Norstalos, one where men and women can live in peace. So as New Norstalines, you will be the perfect men to fight for us! Know that you will finally earn a country’s undying gratitude. Whatever happens, I will never forget you gave up the peace you had earned at such a high price, to come and fight for us in our time of need. I am proud of you all!’ she told them.

They stood then, and cheered, and Martil did not stop them.

‘First Lieutenant Nerrin!’

‘But, sir, I am just a…’

‘Nerrin, you managed to bring a regiment of Rallorans together across a country and get them past Gello’s patrols. You are now a First Lieutenant. Bring any other officers or sergeants you found, and we shall discuss our plans for freeing the north of the country in a week.’

‘A week, sir?’

Martil smiled. ‘We have a little ceremony to perform first. We are going to declare war on Gello.’

23

The news of Havrick’s defeat struck Gello like a thunderbolt. His first response was terror, stark fear that he had failed again. In an instant he was transported back to that terrible day, when he had been unable to draw the Dragon Sword. He could not lose again! Then came the anger. He would not be defeated! He would be triumphant—no matter what. He would do whatever it took to secure victory. This would not stop him.

The supply drivers, the first to return with the news of the defeat, were questioned at length, before being flogged and hanged. When the soldiers who had lost their right hands to Merren’s justice finally returned, they faced the same fate.

Meanwhile the duke prepared his plans. The one thing that comforted him was that the garrisons on the other two northern towns had sent scouts deep into the countryside towards Sendric and reported no sign of an army approaching to attack either of them. He had been doubly relieved that he had the country’s bards under such strict control. News of this defeat could have seen support for Merren swell dramatically. But he had ensured the bards would say nothing. It was just another stain on his honour that would have to be wiped away. His cousin could not have done this—it must have been her tame Ralloran. Well, any desire he had to talk to Captain Martil was gone now. They would pay for what they had done. He called in his war captains to discuss how.

‘We should just gather the army and head north,’ Captain Feld declared. ‘They might have been able to defeat that fool Havrick, but there is no way they can stand against us.’

Gello brooded over a map. ‘It has the virtue of simplicity, but it means we must release our grip on the country. After we abolished the town councils and disbanded the town militia, there is nothing to stop the towns rising against us if we remove our garrisons. And what if that is their plan? We pull every garrison out of every town and march north, only to find these rebels appearing in the towns we left behind. That was, after all, what they did to Havrick. They let him get far away from his base, and his supplies, then they slipped in behind him.’

‘Sire, with respect, the country is supine. We could strip every garrison in every town and there would not be any trouble,’ Captain Medow declared.

‘You have not been out in the towns lately,’ Captain Beq protested. ‘Our men have been ordered to take what they want, and who they want, without fear of punishment. Without the militia, they are the law in these towns. At the moment nobody dares even hold a meeting, because we have companies in every town and city. But take those men away and that will change. Already we are throwing a handful of men in prison each day because they are protesting against what we have done to their wives or daughters.’

Gello rubbed his face. He had the country in an iron grip, but he could not help worrying about what would happen if that grip relaxed. He was confident that once he began invading other countries, people would rally behind him. Besides, they would begin to enjoy the rivers of plunder that would flow back from the conquered countries.

But, for now, they might just decide to rise up, especially if some fool was waving the Dragon Sword at them.

‘I’m not going to march north unless I have the men to both hold the towns and destroy this pathetic rebellion of Merren’s,’ he declared. ‘How are our new regiments progressing?’

‘Slowly, sire,’ Captain Grissum admitted. ‘Few show the right sort of spirit.’

Gello ground his teeth. ‘How long have we got?’ he snarled. ‘We need to finish them before winter arrives. As long as we have them bottled up in the north, they cannot raise enough men to trouble us. But what if word of Havrick’s defeat and the Dragon Sword has spread? What if men try to join them? I want to see the reports from the patrols in the passes. Who is in command of those?’

The reports were quickly found, and an officer hurriedly dragged before Gello and his captains to talk about them.

‘Sire, we have a company of light cavalry spread across the three passes,’ he reported, trying not to tremble too much.

‘Not enough,’ Gello growled. ‘We must have a full company on each pass. See to it. Luckily we acted now. Have there been any parties of men trying to get past your patrols?’

The officer, sweating heavily, shook his head. ‘Only the usual travellers, sire. Merchants and so forth.’

‘Nothing unusual?’ Gello demanded.

The officer nervously leafed through the reports. ‘A few Rallorans, sire. Caravan guards. They said they were going to see an old friend.’

‘Going to see an old friend? Why would those stinking barbarians have any friends in this country? We should run the scum out of here, taking the jobs of honest Norstalines! Well, at least we…’

Captain Beq cleared his throat. ‘Sire, as you know, I am looking after supplies for our invasion plans. This report of the Rallorans tallies with a concern we have.’ ‘What concern?’ Gello demanded.

‘The merchants have been reporting it is near-impossible to find caravan guards or guards for taverns and brothels. It seems the Rallorans have disappeared.’

‘Disappeared? What do you mean, disappeared? How many are we talking about?’ Gello snarled.

Beq gulped. ‘It is hard to put an exact number…’ he began, then saw the expression on Gello’s face and blurted out, ‘I think nearly one thousand have gone.’

‘Gone? Gone where?’ Gello stopped and studied the map again. ‘Going to visit an old friend? By the beard of Aroaril, they’re heading to Sendric! That bastard helping the Queen is one of their old war captains! He’s put out the word and they’re running to help him! They must have used the side trails to avoid the main road and our patrols!’

He spun to face the officer who had delivered the report. ‘No Ralloran mongrels have friends here! I want you to head north and take command of these reinforced patrols. Nobody else is to get through. Then I want you to have the men in charge at each pass killed!’

The officer had gone deathly white.

‘Now!’ Gello roared.

The officer fled and the captains shrank back from Gello’s anger. Captain Beq, in particular, had the look of a man who could see his own death coming.

Gello looked at him fiercely. ‘This changes everything. With one thousand Rallorans, they could hold Sendric against us for a year. That’s if they don’t just disappear behind us and spring up in a score of towns. When we march north, we need a force so overwhelming, there is no way they can stop us. We need more regiments, ones with the right fighting spirit. That bitch Merren used militia against us—we shall use them against her. Round me up a regiment of militia—and empty out the prisons as well. A regiment of criminals will be ideal to send against the north. And we’ll make the bards get them in the right mood for killing Rallorans. But we need another strategy to buy us more time. Perhaps, Captain Beq, I should send you north to give us that time.’

Beq saw the other captains staring at him hungrily, eager to see his downfall. But from the depths of his despair, he clutched at a sudden hope.

‘Sire, I know how to give us enough time and ensure the people will never rise against us,’ he gabbled.

Gello sniffed. ‘This had better be good.’

Beq gulped. But if he succeeded, at least he would have regained his former position of favour.

‘We start telling everyone the Rallorans have invaded. A thousand Butchers of Bellic are sitting in the north, ready to descend on honest Norstaline towns and rape and massacre everyone. The people may be afraid of our men but we can make them terrified of the Queen and her Rallorans!’

Gello thought about it. And the more he thought, the more he liked it. The whole country knew about Bellic. the stupid saga had been sung in taverns across the land before falling out of fashion in favour of a tale about a young lad and his talking cat. The people believed what the bards told them, and he was making sure the bards only told the people what he wanted them to hear. What better way to unite the country than to make them afraid of the Rallorans? Perhaps he had been rash in letting his men loose on the towns…but it had ensured they would not be lured by the Dragon Sword and now he could refashion himself as the protector of Norstalos. A strong arm against the Bitch Queen and her Butcher Rallorans. Yes, he liked that!

‘Captain, I think you have just saved yourself. We shall make the people terrified of the Bitch Queen and her Butcher Rallorans. None will join her then. We shall let them rot away in the north, until we are ready to go and destroy them. We might even be able to persuade the rangers and archers to fight them. And I will meet with the Berellian ambassador after my coronation to discuss how they can help us. Arrange it.’

Bells rang out across the town and across the city. In Sendric, cheering crowds lined the streets, waved and threw flowers as the procession went from the keep to the main church in town. Rocus led the procession, followed by a score of men in full armour, all wearing the blue surcoats of Sendric. Then came the Queen, Martil, Barrett, Sendric and the others, followed by a squad of townsfolk in armour, and a score of Rallorans. All were cheered enthusiastically.

In Norstalos City, hundreds of people were dragged out of their homes by armed men, forced to line the square and made to cheer and applaud by grim soldiers with drawn swords.

In Sendric, Queen Merren walked through the church, escorted by Karia, who scattered flower petals in the air—petals that danced and floated but did not drop to the ground. The pews were filled with townsfolk and farmers, as well as the new army officers. Father Quiller officiated.

In the city, army officers and nobles sat, some reluctantly, by a makeshift altar set up in the palace square. Father Prent officiated, already in the robes of an archbishop, albeit ones with extra gold braiding.

In Sendric, Merren swore an oath to protect and free her country, and unveiled a new standard, a silver dragon on a dark blue background. As she did so, Martil showed the Dragon Sword, and she called on all true Norstalines to help fight for the new flag and the old symbol. She gave her speech about a new Norstalos, where people would be judged by the worth of their actions and abilities, not by how noble their birthright. As a symbol of this, she announced that the town would actually get the chance to elect its own council, rather than use the time-honoured method of having the local nobleman—in this case Sendric—select the town council. Merren also declared Duke Gello a traitor to the crown, and announced all should renounce their loyalty to a false king and serve Norstalos instead. The service, the words made magically audible outside to the massed crowds, drew enormous cheers.

In the city, Gello was presented with the fake Dragon Sword, which he drew to prompted applause, then accepted the crown from Prent, to prompted cheers. He swore an oath to see Norstalos rule the world, and promised rich lands and wagons of plunder to all who supported him. He also promised to see Queen Merren, and all who helped her, tortured to death, and their families killed. Finally, he announced that a thousand Butchers of Bellic were loose in the north, and it was the duty of all Norstalines to see them dead.

After the ceremony in Sendric, the Queen rode around the town, handing out money to women and children of men who had died in the battle, as well as giving food to the poor. Rocus had returned from his trip to the mines with horses laden with gold and silver—and despite Sendric’s protestations, she was determined that the people would share in it. Behind her rode Martil and the other officers, all now wearing the new blue surcoats with a white dragon design. The women of the town had worked hard to dye the red surcoats of Havrick’s men to the new colour, with a little magical help from the town’s wizards. Then Merren joined an enormous street party, with tables set up along the length of the town. Thanks to the magic of Barrett, Karia and the town’s wizards, and the efforts of the chained prisoners, the supply situation was much better, with plenty of food coming in from farms—certainly enough for this celebration.

Merren could not keep the smile from her face at that party. The town had suffered but it was revelling in its freedom. It felt as though a new spirit had gripped the people and the chance to choose their own council had them all excited. After sitting in a palace, waiting in vain for someone to show they cared that she had been deposed, this was heady stuff.

Martil made sure Karia had plenty of food, while he laughed and joked with his officers Wime, Tarik, Rocus and Nerrin before joining as many of his men as possible for a drink. Since taking command of the Rallorans, he felt far more at ease with himself. The only cloud on the horizon was how difficult it had become to see Merren without Barrett hanging around.

Karia was as happy as she had ever been. Between Martil, Merren and Barrett, she was always guaranteed of loving attention. She had to work hard to remember her time with Edil now. As for her magic, she was even impressing the town’s wizards.

Conal, his leg now healed, was enjoying himself thoroughly. One side effect of the battle was the number of widows in the town—and as a hero of the struggle in the keep, he was a busy man.

Barrett, too, was popular with the town’s widows but his heart was set on Merren—and his mind was beginning to obsess over Martil. Still, it was impossible not to enjoy that party.

But laugh as they might, eat and drink as they did, looming above them all was their concern over what was happening down south.

Sergeant Hutter groaned. He wanted to die. Actually, that wasn’t quite right. He wanted to eat a huge plate of sweet pastries, drink some fine wine, relax in bed and then die.

‘Get up, you fat bastard! We’re going to sweat you into shape if it’s the last thing we do! Get up! Norstalos needs even sugar-bellied, militia shit-shovellers!’

Hutter groaned again and hauled himself to his feet. A hand grabbed hold of his sweaty tunic and shoved him forward.

‘Now run! Run until we get rid of that sack of lard hanging above your belt!’

Hutter forced his legs to move and focused on the men in front of him, now moving further away as they ran across fields. His own militiamen were among them, as well as men he recognised from the surrounding villages and towns, Wollin and the like. Not that he had the breath to talk to them right now.

This had not been a good few weeks for him. First, the militia had been dismissed. Just like that. One moment he had been a well-paid, respected member of the community, the next he had been out of a job. He had been trying to negotiate the purchase of a small farm when the squad of soldiers had arrived. They were going to watch over his village, while he and his militiamen were sent to Wollin, to form part of a new regiment that was being put together. Just why Norstalos needed a new regiment, and especially a regiment of militiamen, Hutter had no idea. He had no choice in the matter: hauled out of his home and away from his crying wife and children, loaded onto a wagon and then dumped at this huge training camp.

There, an angry sergeant seemed to have made it his personal mission to torment him. Hutter had trained enough men to recognise that the man was trying to break him, so he would be more willing to take orders and go into battle without question. That was, however, scant comfort on these long, painful training runs. Hutter wiped the sweat from his eyes and concentrated on the backs of the men in front. Only a couple of miles to go, then he could vomit, collapse and drink some water. At least this afternoon would be a little easier. Apparently they were going to get a performance from a bard. Something he could to look forward to. He had always loved the sagas.

‘How are you, Killer?’

Kettering adjusted his hair and glared at the speaker, a thin, nervous man called Leigh who had been sentenced to hang for stabbing a man in a tavern brawl. How was he? How did the idiot think he was? A bloody long way from the Crown and Sparrow, that was for sure. It was a journey that had seemed to become a descent into Zorva’s realm. And the worst thing was, the only way forwards was even further down.

‘Don’t talk to me,’ he snapped.

‘Sorry, Killer. Didn’t mean to upset you,’ Leigh smiled obsequiously.

A fat, bearded man sitting close by leant forwards. ‘’Ere, why are you calling that skinny little pisspot Killer? He doesn’t look like he could knock the top off a good beer!’

Leigh waved his hands frantically, glancing towards where Kettering glowered at him.

‘Don’t you know the story? This bloke was dragged into the toughest bloody prison in the country, screaming that he was innocent, that somebody else knifed those people and framed him. Well, looking like he does, and sounding like he did, there was plenty in that place who thought he’d be easy meat. So these two mad bastards decide to have some fun with him. He does nothing, and there’s plenty there, me included, who are just laughing at him. Then one of them grabs his hair and he finally says something: “Don’t touch the hair.” So of course they start messing it up. Next thing you know, there’s six guards trying to stop him killing them. Two of the biggest bastards you ever saw, and he took them down like they were a pair of kids!’

The bearded man stared hard at Leigh, trying to see if he was joking. But there was no trace of humour on his face. He glanced over at Kettering, who was glaring at them both.

‘So the name stuck—Killer Kettering. Believe me, you don’t want to mess with him,’ Leigh said quietly, but loudly enough for Kettering to hear.

Kettering sighed. The respect the nickname brought him was welcome, especially in this camp full of criminals. But it was nothing compared to his earlier life. Funnily enough, his hair was the one remaining link to the man he once was, which was why he defended it so furiously. He had discovered that when you had almost nothing left, you would do anything to hold onto it. Arrested by the militia after being found with a bloody knife in his hand, accused of killing four people, including a stableboy at his own inn, given a quick trial and an even quicker sentence, he had been sure he would end his life on the gallows. But then the army had come, given them uniforms and started training them to stand in the battleline. Kettering was beginning to think he might enjoy a battlefield—it would allow him to take out all the anger and frustration bottled up inside him at being treated this way, for crimes he did not commit.

‘You three over there—shut up if you don’t want your necks stretched! The bard’s about to start!’ an officer bellowed.

Lieutenant Kay—although he still thought of himself as Captain Kay—lay on his bed, miserably. A few weeks ago, everything had seemed right in the world. He had been the Captain of the Queen’s Guard, an honoured man in Norstaline society. Women wanted to be with him, men wanted to be like him and his parents were proud of him. Not bad for the son of a woodsman, who had joined the King’s Rangers because of his skill with a bow, risen through the ranks because of his bravery and been made an officer when they became the Queen’s Rangers because of his ability to lead men. But being named as captain of her guard had been the ultimate honour. True, she had been rather distant, and any conversations they had had usually took the form of her rebuking him for some error, but she was still the Queen! Then had come the dark days.

First was the horror of discovering there had been an attack on the palace and men he had worked with, trained and led were dead. Worse was to come. The Dragon Sword had been stolen, while under his protection. Just when he had thought his humiliation could not be more complete, he had been dismissed, sent back to his regiment. Duke Gello and a company of his arrogant heavies had burst into the palace and demanded the Queen give up her throne. He had known his men had no chance, outnumbered and outmatched as they were, and had ordered them to stand down. Even now his fists clenched as he remembered the laughing cavalrymen stripping him and his men of their swords and tunics, as though they were beaten dogs. Even though he knew the order to stand down was the right one, sometimes he wished he had fought. A last stand to protect the Queen, dying in his duty, would surely have been preferable to the dishonour. It had not got any easier, either. He had been mortified to return to his regiment and find it under the control of Captain Beq, one of Gello’s favourites, who had taken every opportunity to sneer at his disgrace.

Kay and virtually his whole regiment were confined to barracks, not deemed safe enough to be let out, because their loyalty to Gello was suspect. All they could do was drill, practise their archery, eat and sleep. Kay had heard rumours they would be asked to help with the invasion of Tetril, or perhaps Berellia. He had no interest in invading another country but he did long for one thing, wished for it with all his heart. Just one chance at redemption. One opportunity to win back his honour. If not, sometimes he thought it might be easier to fall on his sword. Aroaril knew, Beq had suggested that to him often enough. Only a combination of his hatred for the man and his desperate desire to make his parents proud of him once more kept him from doing so.

He thought about going down to the archery range but could not muster up the enthusiasm, when a knock on the door made him jump to his feet.

‘Enter!’

One of his rangers marched in and saluted.

‘Captain Beq’s orders, sir! Every man is wanted down at the archery range now! We’re to hear a special performance from a bard!’

After Gello’s ceremony in Norstalos City, the audience was told to donate money to the new King’s war effort, and then told to go away. The nobles were invited back to the palace for a party that was to star Lahra, with most of her fellow workers from the Golden Gate in supporting roles. Father Prent— or rather the newly ordained Archbishop Prent—was not able to make it, although he wanted to. He had to lead a squad of soldiers to arrest the old Archbishop and take over the running of the church. He also had sermons to write, describing every Norstaline’s sacred duty to defeat the Rallorans and to serve King Gello.

Gello also had one duty to perform before he could enjoy the party—to meet with the Berellian ambassador, Ezok. In the short time he had been in the capital, the tall Berellian had become a popular figure at gatherings, known for his love of Norstaline wine, his knowledge of history and his habit of always being impeccably dressed. Today, his long dark hair was held back from his face by a golden band, which was set off by his black-and-gold tunic.

Once pleasantries had been exchanged, and wine poured, he got down to business.

‘Berellia would officially like to congratulate your majesty on your ascension to the throne, and hopes that we can continue our long tradition of being peaceful neighbours,’ Ezok smiled. He was outwardly impassive, but his heart had been pounding since he had received the invitation. This, surely, was the meeting Brother Onzalez had referred to back in Berellia. Now was the pivotal moment, when the future could be changed and the world stood on a knife edge.

Gello smiled back. Humourlessly. ‘Being peaceful neighbours is a long tradition only because you were too afraid of us. Isn’t it true that many Berellian schools teach that the Berellian border should be at the River Brack, rather than where it is, at least fifty miles further south?’

Ezok inclined his head. These sorts of pleasantries were no more than he expected, and easy to parry. ‘There has been some foolishness in the past. But my king wishes you to know that he has no intentions like that.’

‘Of course not! His treasury has been drained and his armies decimated. His intention is to keep us away until he has the chance to build them up again.’

‘Speaking of armies, my king does wonder why it is you need such vast training camps, when there is no war, or prospect of one?’ Ezok countered.

This time Gello’s laugh was genuine. ‘I like your style, Ambassador.’ He raised his glass to Ezok. ‘Especially as Berellia is a shadow of the power it once was, and could be snapped up easily.’

Ezok smiled once more, although it got nowhere near his eyes. Time to throw this arrogant usurper off balance a little. ‘Indeed, your majesty. But it is wise to remember that it is far harder to keep a country, than it is to take one. And one should not count one’s eggs until they are in the pudding. Both things we learnt, to our cost, during the Ralloran Wars. I would hate to see a king such as yourself make the same errors.’

Gello roared with laughter. ‘You mistake me, Ambassador. I am an admirer of Berellia. Its honest approach to border expansion is one I have long wished to emulate. In other directions, of course. In fact, you may not realise how close we are in our ambitions.’

Ezok tried hard, but could not keep the flicker of interest from his face. He must play this cautiously, not seem too eager. If Onzalez was right, Gello would deliver himself into his hands. ‘We have long thought that an alliance with Norstalos could bring great benefits for both countries,’ he said carefully.

Gello held up a hand. ‘You are getting ahead of yourself, Ambassador. First we must develop more of a relationship. How do you think our countries could make a fresh start?’

Ezok sipped his wine, and raised an appreciative eyebrow. ‘What about something to help celebrate your ascension to the throne. What might your majesty like?’

Gello smiled. ‘Nothing big. Just some help with a little problem I have in the north. With a man who was one of the Butchers of Bellic.’

Ezok pretended to be thinking, although he knew full well that only one remained. ‘We know he is here. War Captain Martil. There is nothing my country would not do to see him dead.’

Gello savoured his wine, as well as the hatred apparent on Ezok’s face. ‘I want you to help me destroy him—and about one thousand of his foul brood. All veterans of the Ralloran Wars and all bloodstained by Bellic.’

‘A thousand veterans of Bellic? What are they even doing in your country? To think that any civilised nation would harbour such monsters…’

‘Calm down, Ambassador,’ Gello growled. ‘Spare me the mock indignation. Listen, I want my peasants to be in fear of these Rallorans. I want my people to think there are one thousand raping, murdering barbarians invading our country, and helping Queen Merren. I want them to be hated, so I can go north and crush them unopposed.’

Ezok nodded. He knew King Markuz was always happy to kill Rallorans. ‘We would like to help. I can provide you with a score of our finest bards, all of whom specialise in the Real Saga of Bellic, the story as it should be told.’

Gello smiled again. ‘An excellent start. My peasants love the sagas. And I believe the Berellian King has a Champion, whose only purpose is to kill his enemies.’

‘Correct, your majesty. He is a busy man. But he might be able to help you with your Ralloran infestation.’ Ezok did not add that Cezar was desperate to finish the mission he had failed.

Gello smiled gratefully. ‘Then this could be the start of a fruitful relationship for both our countries.’

Ezok raised his glass in agreement. Obviously this was the start of Norstalos moving under Berellia’s control.

Gello laughed. ‘After you have helped us, perhaps we can look at an alliance. I’m sure we can work out the new borders of this continent amicably. And once we have Tetril, Aviland and Rallora, it will be time to look over the seas. Can you tell me now if Berellia would be interested in what I propose or do you need to consult with your King?’

Ezok fought to keep his face straight. This was everything Onzalez said it would be! But he could not move too fast.

He had enough for now. The key to trapping such a big prize was patience. Let Gello become ensnared just a little bit at a time. Then let the world tremble!

‘You will see that Berellia and I will become the best friends you have ever had,’ he promised.

Gello’s blood was fired by the thought of triumph. In his mind’s eye he could see his map of the continent again and every country under his rule. And then overseas, where legend had it there were countries with so much gold it was not thought valuable; even, perhaps, to the fabled Dragonara Island. The treasures and glory that waited for him!

‘Nothing can stop me now!’ Gello laughed.

‘Nothing can stop us now,’ Ezok offered, in mild reproof.

‘Of course, nothing can stop us now!’ Gello said magnanimously, and refilled their wine glasses.

‘Come and join my party, ambassador, there’s a woman called Lahra that you must meet.’

Acknowledgements

Thanks to everyone who supported me,

helped me and encouraged me:

my family and friends, agent Siobhan Hannan,

copy editor Abigail Nathan and the

incomparable Stephanie Smith.

Without all of you, this book would be

far poorer.

About The Author

Duncan Lay is layout designer and headline writer at the Sunday Telegraph. He has always worked in journalism and has been employed on a number of different newspapers and media outlets. This is his first novel. He lives on the Central Coast of New South Wales with his wife and two young children.

Talk to Duncan Lay at:

duncanlay.blogspot.com

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Copyright

HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

First published in Australia in 2009

This edition published in 2010

by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

ABN 36 009 913 517

www.harpercollins.com.au

Copyright © Duncan Lay 2009

The right of Duncan Lay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

HarperCollinsPublishers

25 Ryde Road, Pymble, Sydney, NSW 2073, Australia

31 View Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

A 53, Sector 57, Noida, UP, India

77–85 Fulham Palace Road, London, W6 8JB, United Kingdom

2 Bloor Street East, 20th floor, Toronto, Ontario M4W 1A8, Canada

10 East 53rd Street, New York NY 10022, USA

ISBN 978 0 7322 8768 9 (pbk).

ISBN 978 0 7304 0024 0 (ePub).

About the Publisher

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)

Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia

http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au

Canada

HarperCollins Canada

2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor

Toronto, ON, M4W 1A8, Canada

http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca

New Zealand

HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited

P.O. Box 1

Auckland, New Zealand

http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz

United Kingdom

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

77-85 Fulham Palace Road

London, W6 8JB, UK

http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk

United States

HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

10 East 53rd Street

New York, NY 10022

http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com