The Wounded Guardian by Duncan Lay Page A

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 hecould 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 asthe 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 paidthe 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