The Wounded Guardian by Duncan Lay Read Free Book Online

the farm, it wasnot 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’siron-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