The Wounded Guardian by Duncan Lay

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