Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

‘Take this. I’ve put in my grandda’s fire-ring. I think he would’ve wanted you to have it. Also a knife, your blanket and some food that we can easily spare. Do you have any money?’

  Zastra shook her head. ‘There wasn’t time,’ she said.

  ‘Well, here’s a few tocrins,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s not much, but should help you buy a loaf or two of bread on the way. And this is an old cap of mine, it might disguise you a bit. It’s amazing how different people can look in a cap.’ He set a frayed and faded brown hat on her head. It was slightly too large, especially with her shorn head, and flopped low over her eyes. Hedrik grunted in satisfaction.

  ‘One more thing. Hilfrik, a good friend of mine, has been ordered to drive a wagon load of jula oil into Riverford. You’ll have to cross the Great River there as it’s the only bridge for many leagues. He’s agreed to hide you in his wagon and let you out once you are over the river. I haven’t told him who you are, just that you need to escape the soldiers. He’s a good man and don’t like Kyrgs any more than I do. The wagon only just arrived, and it’ll take him a bit of time to load up and hitch the horses. I said we’d meet him just south of the village.’

  Zastra was amazed by the sudden flow of words, more than Hedrik had mustered in all their previous three days together. He checked and repacked her bag three times, while Zastra busied herself by examining the map. She found Trindhome and Riverford, but beyond that was a blur of unknown names. Finally, she found Lyria Castle, where, if she were to obey her father’s last instructions, she must head. Beyond Lyria lay only the borders and Sendor. She folded away the map and hid it in the lining of her jacket, a shapeless, coarse thing that Hedrik deemed suitable for her guise as a country farm boy.

  The time soon came to leave. Hedrik took her out of the back of the house and they circled round to the south end of the village. They waited round the first bend in the highway, out of sight of the southernmost dwelling. Soon enough, a deep rumble announced the arrival of a large covered wagon, drawn by four large horses. A plump man with a red face acknowledged them and drew the horses to halt. He jumped down and pulled aside a triangle of the wagon cover.

  ‘In here lad,’ he called out jovially. ‘I’ve cleared a space just behind me. That way, no one’ll see you and I can warn you if any soldiers are coming. If you’ve got a blanket, I’d put it down now – it’ll be long old ride.’

  He helped Zastra into the wagon and Hedrik slung her bag in afterwards. She barely had time to whisper a quick word of thanks before the wagon drew off. She glimpsed Hedrik’s hunched frame through a tear in the cover as he walked slowly back to the village, hands in his pockets. She regretted there had not been time to say goodbye properly. True, he had been a grim and surly companion, sometimes even rude. But he had risked his life to keep them safe and she wished she had been able to better express her gratitude.

  The wagon rumbled along at steady rate. Hilfrik was a cheerful, chatty fellow, always either whistling, singing or talking. Fortunately, he did not appear to require much in the way of response from Zastra, who was able to practice ‘Aye’ ‘No’ and ‘Oh’ in her best country accent. Such occasional acknowledgement was all that was needed as Hilfrik told tales of trips he had made, moaned about his wife who nagged him mercilessly, and recounted the varied adventures, large and small, of his son, now grown up and moved away. She was happy to listen to him chattering away. It saved her from her own reflections and she buried away snippets of his country dialect for future use. Only once did he pause for breath. The road was cutting through a steep valley when they overtook a troop of soldiers. A couple of the soldiers questioned Hilfrik while Zastra crouched in the back of the wagon and held her breath, willing Findar, who was sleeping, not to wake and make a noise. Hilfrik explained his business and they were allowed to continue on their way. Zastra sank back in relief. Barely ten minutes later, Findar was awake and crying, but there was only Hilfrik to hear him.

  Late in the afternoon, Hilfrik stopped to feed and water the horses. As he let Zastra out, he explained that after this short break they would be travelling through the night.

  ‘We should make it to Riverford by tomorrow lunchtime.’

  Zastra enjoyed the chance to stretch her legs and tend to Findar’s needs, but she was continually aware of the closeness of the road and the chance that soldiers may come by at any time. It was not long before the horses had been watered and re-harnessed and they were on their way again. The steady rhythm of the wagon lulled both Zastra and Findar to sleep.

  A sharp tapping awoke Zastra and she was quickly alert. A whisper from Hilfrik told her they were approaching the Great River.

  ‘It would be handy if the littlun were quiet for a bit,’ he said. Unfortunately, Findar chose that moment to wake and make some tentative cries, which Zastra was beginning to recognise as the precursor to the ear-deafening bawl of a hungry baby. There was just enough early morning light filtering through the wooden slats that formed the base of the wagon for her to change Findar’s undergarments. This however, did not make the crying cease. Hilfrik’s voice came again, this time more urgently.

  ‘If he don’t quiet in the next few minutes, we’re done for lad!’

  Zastra tried feeding Findar some moistened bread, but he spat it out and bawled even louder. In desperation, Zastra dipped her finger in the small bag of sugar that Hedrik had provided and inserted it into her little brother’s mouth. He suckled contentedly and at last was silent.

  ‘About time!’ exclaimed Hilfrik with undisguised relief. A short moment later he gave a hearty hail, which was returned by gruff orders to halt. Zastra fed some more sugar to Findar, who seemed happy to suck at the sweetness. Hilfrik explained his business, as well as half his life story, to the guards. Zastra detected a shaft of light from the back of the wagon. One of the guards had lifted the covering and was peering inside. She sat rigidly, hardly daring to breathe.

  ‘Have you seen any children on your travels?’ queried a clipped, female voice. ‘In particular an older girl with two young babies?’

  ‘No,’ said Hilfrik. ‘If I saw such a thing, I’d be sure to send them straight home. You don’t know what dangers might be lurking about. I don’t know any parent’d let their littluns wander off on their own, especially with all things turned upside and about as they are now.’

  ‘Order will return very soon,’ the voice responded. ‘Just as soon as we catch those malcontents who refuse to acknowledge the benefits of having Grand Marl Thorlberd in charge. All right, move along. The Prefect of Riverford will be happy to receive this shipment.’

  By the altered sound and rhythm of the wagon, Zastra guessed they had moved from the dirt track onto paved road. She could hear the rush of flowing water. They must be crossing the Great River. She looked down anxiously at Findar. Her brother stared back at her, still happily suckling on her finger.

  ‘Stay quiet,’ whispered Hilfrik, ‘there are more guards the other side.’

  A short while later the changing rhythm told Zastra they had reached the other side of the bridge. The covering at the back of the wagon had been left loose and flapped with the motion of the cart. Through it, Zastra saw they had passed through a whole troop of soldiers.

  ‘It’s less than half a league to the Westgate of Riverford,’ said Hilfrik out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I’ll let you out in a moment. What the…? There’s some kind of large bird hovering over the city. Why, it must be huge, for me to see it from here – maybe a giant eagle, or – hmm, it looks a bit frightening, brings a shiver to your heart. Come and look lad, it’s quite something.’

  Zastra’s heart sank. She did not need to look to know what the creature was. For the first time in several days, she felt a touch on her mind. Fortunately, she had kept her mental walls in place and the probing touch hovered only briefly before moving on. Her thoughts raced. Their original plan had been for her and Findar to leave the wagon before it entered the walled city so that they could skirt round it, but that was impossib
le now. The creature and its rider would see them. They would have to stay with the wagon and try and get through the city and out the other side. As Hilfrik halted the horses and made to dismount, she whispered to him to carry on to Riverford.

  ‘The soldiers can’t see you from this far away boy,’ he chuckled. But Zastra knew that she couldn’t take the risk. For all she knew the creature could have eyes sharper than an eagle. They must take their chances in Riverford.

  ‘Please, Hilfrik,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Oh well, it’s no concern to me what you do. Although once we are past the gatehouse guards, you’d better slip to the back of the wagon and sneak out before I make my delivery to the Prefect, or they’ll be sure to find you when they unload.’

  They set off again. They were questioned briefly by the guards at the city gate, but were quickly waved through. The bustle and smell of the city hit Zastra even through the covered sides of the wagon. She whispered a word of thanks to Hilfrik then, folding the sling around the now sleeping Findar, she moved to the back of the wagon and peered out. She waited until they had turned a corner, then leapt out of the moving wagon and dashed to a nearby alleyway. No one shouted or reached out to stop them. She sank with relief onto a set of stone steps. Footsteps approached, and she lowered her cap to cover as much of her face as possible. The footsteps passed by without pausing. Other people, often in groups, passed by without taking any notice of them. It seemed as if, in this large city, they could indeed become invisible.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Their good fortune didn’t last. A servant came out of the house on whose front steps they were seated and shooed them away. Zastra did not protest, moving off and wandering aimlessly through the city. She was overwhelmed by the size and noise of the place. The paved streets, wet with recent rain, glimmered dimly in the shafts of sunlight that filtered down from the thin strips of sky overhead. The buildings appeared tall to Zastra, almost as tall as the high towers of the castle, but because they were built so close to each other they seemed to lean over her, closing her in. The narrow alleyways were full of people, densely packed. Zastra was used to large numbers of people in the castle, but not herded together as they were in Riverford. In spite of the crowds, there was a strange air of despondency upon the place. Troops of Bractarian and Kyrginite soldiers appeared frequently, marching up and down the main streets; the crowds parting silently and obediently before them. The beating wings of the terrible creature contributed to the dark, fearful mood. Zastra’s were not the only eyes that peered up in concern whenever it passed over the city.

  Zastra ducked into the smaller alleyways to try and avoid both the troops and the airborne beast. Riverford was set on a steep hill and Zastra found herself heading sideways across the base of the hill into increasingly narrow streets and alleyways. The imposing grey stone houses gave way to smaller, more ramshackle dwellings, patched with wood and dirty pieces of cloth. The city seemed to age, morphing from tall, upright strength to tired, weather-beaten facades that looked as if they might fall over at the slightest touch. There were fewer people in these streets. Here and there, a figure would trudge along, head bent, uninterested in their surroundings. This was a poorer part of town, and Zastra was shocked by the appearance of some scrawny children, only partly dressed, with running sores on their arms and legs. Beggars called out to her, but she hurried past, head bowed. Even the rats looked emaciated and Zastra saw several of them lying dead in the streets. A pungent odour of decay hung in the damp air and foul streams of brown sewage ran down the ever-narrowing passageways. A motionless bundle lay in one gutter, covered in grey cloth. Zastra did not dare imagine what horror lay beneath. Doors slammed shut as she passed. The stench grew worse, the heavy atmosphere causing Zastra to cough and she turned to head up the hill, desperate to rise above the foul miasma. A woman peered out of a window directly above them, stopping herself just as she was about to empty a bucket onto the open street. A splash of reddish liquid landed just in front of Zastra’s boot.

  ‘Sorry love,’ the woman muttered and then, looking around her, she whispered cryptically, ‘get out while you can, my dear – this is no place for littluns, or anyone else for that matter. Get out of the city…’ With no further explanation, the woman leaned back into the house and closed the window. Startled and increasingly worried, Zastra continued upwards, relieved as the air began to freshen and the streets widened and began to fill up with other people. Even though the chance of meeting soldiers was greatly increased, Zastra felt they were safer here than in the stifling confines of the lower edges of the city.

  Riverford was much larger than it had appeared from the outside, and it was a good while before Zastra found herself in a paved square at the top of the hill. A crowd had gathered by a tall gateway set at the north side of the square, behind which sat a large, square building, two stories high with tall, shuttered windows. Zastra thought it looked as if two sets of stables had been placed one above the other, and half expected the shutters to open to reveal a row of horses. She joined the crowd, figuring she would be less conspicuous. She was also anxious to hear any news. The crowd continued to build until the gates opened with a fanfare and a wooden platform was wheeled forward. A plump man stepped up onto the platform. He was ordinary-looking, with pale brown hair and a pink, clean shaven face. However, his wardrobe was far from ordinary, dressed as he was in garish silk tunic, only partly hidden by a sumptuous black velvet coat. He was accompanied by several guards, including a powerful looking Kyrginite warrior, whose face was half covered in an elaborate green tattoo. The plump man raised his hand for silence.

  ‘Citizens of Riverford. It has been six days since Grand Marl Thorlberd, in alliance with our Kyrginite friends, took command of Golmeira in order to restore order and glory to our lands. I, Finton, have been appointed Prefect of this city until a new Marl of Riverford is appointed.’

  At the mention of the Kyrginites, there was a general murmur of discontent around the crowd.

  ‘You see the power at our command,’ Finton proclaimed, gesturing upwards towards the circling beast. ‘The mighty migaradons are invincible, commanded by the strength of mindweavers. Resistance to their will is useless.’

  The noise of the crowd was reduced, although not completely quieted. Finton continued, shaking his head in a theatrical expression of disappointment.

  ‘Sadly, there are some among you who fail to understand the huge benefit that the new order will bring, and instead seek to wreak disruption and chaos. This will not be tolerated. During this period of transition, order must be kept. The evening curfew will continue for the foreseeable future. As of now, all people entering and leaving the city must report to the gatehouse guards and present themselves for mindweaver scans. Anyone defying these instructions will be arrested. Supporters of the old, disgraced regime will be tried for treason. Anyone assisting these traitors will be imprisoned.’

  ‘The only person who needs to be sent to jail is your tailor, matey,’ muttered a woman who was standing just behind Zastra. There were a few muted chuckles.

  Finton extended his arms outwards in an expansive gesture.

  ‘Come, let us work together. If you help us, you will be well rewarded. We have an opportunity to build a new era of glory and prosperity for the land of Golmeira. Join us in our quest.’

  ‘Work together, he says,’ snorted the woman behind Zastra. ‘Somehow I don’t reckon all this glory and prosperity will be for us working people. We’ll have to suffer for it, but it’ll always be the rich ones as’ll get the benefit.’

  A general rumble of discontent spread through the crowd as if in agreement with these sentiments.

  ‘Traitorous flekk!’ cried another voice from somewhere within the crowd.

  ‘Who said that?’ shouted Finton, looking around nervously. ‘Whoever said that will be caught and punished.’

  The Prefect gestured a pair of large Kyrgs into the crowd to seek out the trouble-maker. The murmurings of the crowd increas
ed, the body of people seething and gathering as if a storm was beginning to break over a choppy sea. The Kyrgs re-appeared, dragging a teenage lad.

  ‘It weren’t me!’ the boy protested, shaking in fear. ‘Honest, it weren’t me!’

  ‘That’s right,’ an anonymous voice shouted from the crowd. ‘The lad said nothing.’

  ‘Quiet!’ shouted Finton tremulously. ‘We do not make mistakes. Take him to the dungeons.’

  The rumble of the crowd increased, and it pushed towards the brightly dressed Prefect. He turned quickly and scurried back into the safety of the square building. Sustained jeers were aimed at his receding back, but the appearance of archers at the windows quietened the crowd and it began to disperse. Some people peeled off the back and headed away from the square. Zastra joined them, pondering what she had heard. She and Findar would have to leave Riverford as soon as possible. It was not safe for them, now that they were considered traitors. Her reverie was broken by the familiar sound of her father’s name.

  ‘I’d no particular liking of Leodra, or any of them grand marls,’ a short, stubby man was saying to a couple of friends, ‘but I don’t agree with this business. Bringing those Kyrg savages to do their dirty work. You know old Yoland, the baker? All he did was break curfew to get his wife some medicine and refused to stop for those Kyrginite thugs. Now he’s been locked up as a traitor.’

  ‘And that flekk Finton,’ piped up another man, ‘last week, he was just a secretary, hated by everyone for being a real stickler for protocol. Now some idiot has made him Prefect.’

  ‘Aye. I heard it were him as ordered Lord Miraval’s guards to open the Westgate and let in the Kyrgs. What with that migaradon, the guards had no chance. Some good men and women amongst them too, as well as Miraval himself. To think we have a lousy backstabber ruling the roost like a cock hen.’

  ‘Hush,’ whispered the third man, casting Zastra a suspicious look. ‘We could all be locked up for saying such things. Think of your wife and littluns.’ The three men disappeared into the maze of alleyways.