The Wounded Guardian by Duncan Lay Page B

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 dineon 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