The Wounded Guardian by Duncan Lay Read Free Book Online Page B

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 lookingafter 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 Edilhad 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 fromMartil’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