That must be it. Kastara must have perished in the blue fever outbreak. Brutila didn’t know whether to smile in triumph or be upset that one of Leodra’s children had escaped her. She turned her gaze on the younger children. They cowered in terror before this ghostly apparition that had withered their invincible Ma with a mere glance. Brutila looked them over, prepared to dig into their minds. They may have more information to confirm her suspicions.
The murmurings of the villagers grew louder as they closed threateningly around Boltan’s prone form. Several carried makeshift weapons. Brutila realised with shock that here were more than thirty men and women. Where had they come from? She couldn’t handle them all, not with only had three guards, and the villagers looked extremely angry.
Discretion was called for. They had the information they needed, there was no point risking more. Brutila extricated herself from the restive crowd and left the village with the guards. She elected to return to Riverford for reinforcements, guiding her horse back along the main road.
Zastra, Zastra… Where are you going? Brutila tried to anticipate the thoughts of her quarry. There was nothing to the direct north save the Helgarth Mountains. Zastra would be extremely foolish to head that way. The main road headed east past Gorst Town and then the options were to head north to Lyria or south down to the coast and the fortified port of Seacastle. Brutila had been informed that Seacastle was still holding out against Thorlberd’s forces. Perhaps Zastra planned to head that way and seek passage on a ship to the Far Isles, well beyond the edge of Golmeiran territory. It was a sensible strategy and should not be discounted. But Brutila’s thoughts were drawn to Lyria. The scene of Leodra’s infamy and Brutila’s humiliation so long ago. The grey-haired woman shivered, pulling her fur-lined coat tight against her body, even as the evening sun shone down upon her.
Yes, he may well have sent you to Lyria.
An image of snow and the bitter sensation of cold swirled inside her mind, almost solid, almost real. She fought the rising panic, knowing the image to be a memory, no more. With an effort of will she was able to quell the vision. Nevertheless, the strength of the vision and the apparent reality of it concerned her. A side effect of the cintara? Possibly. But it must be borne, there was much work to do. Her iron grip was closing around the two remaining children of her enemy. Soon they would know terrors they had never dreamed of…
Chapter Thirty-three
Hot, hungry and tired, Zastra shaded her eyes with her hand and looked down at the sunlit valley below. Embedded in the opposite side of the valley, beyond a lively river, sat a large castle. Built from the red stone of the valley, it appeared to have been carved out of the mountainside itself. If Zastra had read her map correctly, this was Lyria, home of their father’s friend and ally, Marl Orwin. Behind her stood the Evergreen Forest. A gentle breeze swished through the trees and caused the thin branches to dip and wave in a gesture of farewell. Zastra was not sorry to leave it behind. Although she had become strong from her exertions and her blisters had long since disappeared, the steep, root-entangled slopes had made progress difficult. Then there were the clouds of biting insects, angry at being disturbed, that had left red welts all over her arms and ankles. It had taken her more than a half-month to battle through the large swathe of forest that separated Gorst Town from the Lyria valley. At least the journey had been uneventful, and they had met no one.
Findar seemed excited by the sunlight, reaching out his chunky hands in pleasure. The land had been cleared of trees to make way for stepped farmland and houses. Wagons moved slowly along the floor of the valley below. A single bridge across the river linked the redstone castle to a large, paved track that headed south down the valley towards the coast. According to her map, the border regions lay over the eastern ridge of the valley, beyond the castle. Beyond the Borders lay the bleaker terrain of Sendor.
Zastra sighed. In the last few days they had again run out of food and her new-found strength was fading. Wearily, she set off towards the bridge. There were a series of half paths and natural steps cut into the mountainside to help her as she scrambled down, but it was hot work with the late summer sun rising high in the sky. She was parched by the time she reached the bridge. Lyria Castle, which had looked so close from the edge of the forest, now seemed further away, sitting in state at the top of a winding track. The bridge was guarded by four Bractarian soldiers, but Zastra noted with relief the absence of any black robes. She stepped boldly across the bridge, hoping that the plan she had hatched that morning would work. The soldiers seemed more interested in arguing with each other than paying attention to them.
‘I tell, you, this is a punishment,’ one of the soldiers was saying. ‘I asked to be posted in Golmer, where all the action is, or at least in one of the big cities. But a bit of backchat to that flekk of a captain and I end up here, in the middle of nowhere. Nothing ever happens in Lyria.’
‘Oh, quit your whining,’ said one of the other soldiers. ‘We should all be thankful Marl Orwin opened up his gates without a fight. Sensible man, knows when he’s beat. Just the sight of the migaradon was enough, never mind that Thorlberd had orchestrated the mindweavers to act on his behalf. That was genius. We get all the glory of conquest without any of the trouble, so stop complaining. You boy!’ he gestured to Zastra. ‘Where are you bound?’
‘To the castle,’ mumbled Zastra, ‘looking for the healer.’
‘The healer? Why?’
‘It’s my brother,’ replied Zastra, prodding Findar into surprised crying. ‘I’m worried sick. He’s hot as anything and his lips started to go blue just this morning.’
‘Blue?’ said the man, fear and disgust flicking across his face.
Zastra broke into a hoarse cough, nodding. A fold of material fell away, revealing Findar’s face, his lips a bluish-purple against his pale skin.
‘On you go,’ The soldier backed away, waving them along whilst covering his mouth with his arm. Zastra did as she was told, forcing herself to trudge slowly up the path, despite the urge to run. When they were out of sight of the bridge, she rubbed away the berry juice that she had smeared across Findar’s lips. Her plan had worked to perfection.
It was not until they were in front of the gates of Lyria Castle that Zastra realised she had not thought of a strategy to get in and see Orwin. She could hardly announce their presence and demand an audience with the marl. The guards at the gate sent her round to the kitchens, where apparently help was required. Unsure whether she had understood the instructions properly, she entered a small courtyard where a group of boys were playing. Zastra went over to ask them for directions, but they ignored her, intent as they were on their game.
That game was not a pleasant one. Surrounded by several taunting youths was a burly boy with a thick mane of blond hair. He seemed oddly misaligned at first. As he turned towards the ringleader, Zastra could see his left arm was withered and shrivelled; only half the size it should be. He carried his head in a lopsided way, his left eye glassy and unseeing. It was to his left side that the boys attacked, poking him with sticks and throwing pebbles.
‘Ho, P-P- Podrik!’ mocked the tallest boy, a freckled youth with auburn hair who appeared to be the ringleader.
The large boy turned ponderously. ‘P-please s-stop,’ he stuttered, and the surrounding youths rocked with laughter.
‘Podrik, the cripple,’ they sang. ‘Can’t even say his own name. Ho, ugly brute.’
Podrik lumbered towards one of the boys, but he was too slow, and his quarry slipped easily away. Another boy threw a clod of earth, striking Podrik in the back of the head. The expression on his face raised a memory in Zastra of a time a travelling circus had visited Golmer Castle. They had brought with them an old plough horse, a mottled grey mare whose protruding ribs and sad eyes spoke of years of mistreatment. Zastra, six years old at the time, had been very upset by the sight. She saw the same helpless expression of fear and hurt on Podrik’s face as she had seen on the old plough horse. In respo
nse to her pleas, her father had ordered the horse be released into his care and ensured it was looked after; she had been so proud of him that day. Her anger rose and without thinking she strode forward.
‘That’s it Podrik,’ laughed the freckled boy as Podrik fell to his knees under a sly blow from one of the group. ‘Show some respect for your betters.’
‘You have to earn respect first,’ cried Zastra, stepping into the ring. ‘And I don’t see anything here to respect. Just a bunch of bullies. It’s shameful – five of you with sticks and stones against one boy.’
‘Oooh,’ cooed one of the other boys, mockingly, ‘and who are you?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Well, what we are doing is none of your business,’ said the ringleader, looking around at his appreciative audience.
‘Good one, Terlan,’ the other boy said, clapping and hooting.
The boy called Terlan cast his eyes back on Zastra.
‘Now clear off, country boy, and let us have our fun.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Zastra, ‘unless of course you’re afraid of a fair fight?’
‘Oooh!’ hooted the gang, clapping their hands in excitement.
Terlan twirled his stick, eying up his opponent. He looked to be a few years older than Zastra and a good foot taller.
‘All right,’ he nodded, with a confident grin.
‘All right,’ returned Zastra, keeping her eye on Terlan as she offered her hand to Podrik.
‘Would you look after something very important to me?’ she whispered. Podrik nodded and, loosening the sling, Zastra gave over the sleeping Findar to him. She then turned to face Terlan.
‘Lyria rules suit you?’ the boy said with a sly grin.
‘What are Lyria rules?’
‘You start with what you’ve got,’ he jeered, holding up his stick to the laughter of his gang. Zastra looked at her empty hands and shrugged. Terlan circled her, brandishing and prodding his stick. Zastra forced her weary bones into fighting stance, expending the minimum of effort as she turned to keep her face towards her circling opponent. Eventually, bored of trying to goad her, Terlan broke forward, swinging the stick hard. Zastra weaved with all the grace of her natural agility and training, and as the stick whipped past her face she used the boy’s uncontrolled momentum to trip him and throw him to the ground. He landed in a puddle of wet mud with a satisfying shlock. A few of the other boys tittered.
‘You stinking…’ cried Terlan
‘Actually, I think it’s you that’s stinking,’ said Zastra with a grin. ‘That mud…’
‘That ain’t mud,’ said one of the youths, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
Enraged, Terlan scrabbled up and attacked her again. This time Zastra stepped towards the challenge, ducking underneath the stick and striking a strong blow to the midriff. Terlan collapsed, winded. As had been the custom at Golmer Castle, Zastra stood back to allow him to catch his breath.
‘He’s showing Terlan a thing or two,’ giggled one of the onlooking gang.
‘Good skills,’ muttered another, nodding his head in admiration.
‘Shut up!’ cried Terlan, dropping the stick and running straight at Zastra. He tried to grapple her, no doubt hoping to use his considerable weight advantage. Zastra used the trick she had learnt from Kylen to trip the boy and deposit him on his back with an oomph of exhaled air. She then placed her knee in his chest until he was forced to surrender. As she let him up, he looked at her indecisively. He was saved by a call from the edge of the courtyard. A Bractarian guard marched over. His red hair and features indicated that he was Terlan’s father.
‘You, boy!’ The soldier grabbed a handful of Zastra’s shirt. ‘Who are you, you filthy thing, to be fighting my boy?’
‘No one, sir,’ muttered Zastra, suddenly afraid. Would her impetuousness get them caught now, when they were so close to safety?
‘No one eh? Well, my captain won’t appreciate that kind of answer. Likes everything in order, she does. Do you have any papers?’
‘No.’
‘Well, perhaps a trip to the mindweaver will loosen your tongue.’
‘It’s all right, sergeant. This is one of my new kitchen boys. I’ll see he gets punished. But your boy started the trouble, so you may want to do the same.’
A short, round woman, wearing a green apron stained with grease and flour, stepped out of a nearby doorway. Her hair was tied back, with more than a few strands of grey showing through a thick mass of black. Her dark black eyebrows were stitched together in a forbidding frown. Wisely, the soldier chose not to argue.
‘All right, Morn,’ he said, beckoning Terlan away.
‘I’ll get you later, country boy,’ Terlan spat, as he and his gang headed off. Zastra went to retrieve Findar, who had slept quietly through the whole event.
‘Thank you for looking after him,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind,’ replied Podrik and a smile as lopsided as the rest of his body lit up his moon-like face.
‘Podrik – look at the state of you. Mud everywhere, and I only washed those trousers yesterday,’ clucked the woman.
‘I’m s-sorry, M-m-ma.’
‘Never mind,’ she sighed, ‘I can guess what happened. Who might you be, young master? I’ve not seen you before. A stray by the looks and smell of you.’
‘Looking for work, sir,’ said Zastra, head bowed.
The short woman burst into laughter. ‘Goodness me, I don’t think anyone has ever called me sir in my whole life! Call me Morn, everyone else does. I’m Podrik’s ma and chief cook of the castle. Now, before we talk business, won’t you come in and try some of my root vegetable soup? You look half starved.’
Zastra didn’t argue. It had been two days since she had run out of food and her stomach was empty and grumbling. ‘I’ve a littlun, too,’ she said, as she followed Morn to the kitchen.
‘I can see that, duckie. What do you think I am, blind?’ exclaimed Morn. ‘I’m sure we can find something for the baby.’
The kitchens were large. Not quite as big as the ones at Golmer Castle, but still a good size, and hot, especially in the present sunshine. However, Zastra was grateful of a place to sit, as well as the food and water that were given her.
Podrik held out his arms to take Findar, who was grizzling.
‘I can look after him,’ he said with a confidence that contrasted with his demeanour in front of Terlan’s gang.
‘Aye, let him duckie. He’s good with littluns,’ called out Morn from one of the big stoves. Podrik, with exaggerated care, took Findar on his knee, balancing him against his shorter arm, and fed him fruit and milk with the other. Findar was soon content.
‘There’ll be no hats at table in my kitchen,’ Morn ordered, pulling off Zastra’s cap and placing it on the table next to her. Zastra was too busy gulping down the soup to complain. It was a long time since she had tasted anything so delicious.
When Zastra had polished off a large bowl of soup and several rolls, Morn, who had been watching her closely the whole time, took her by the hand.
‘Come with me, child,’ she said, leading her gently into a small pantry and closing the door. Crouching down so as to be on a level with Zastra, Morn reached out a small, fat hand and softly caressed the girl’s cheek, eyes alight with sorrow.
‘Oh, my poor dear Anara, I can see you in this child’s face. Zastra, you must be. Oh, my poor dear girl.’ And she clasped Zastra to her. Zastra, tears unlocked by the unexpected kindness, buried her head in the soft folds of flesh and sobbed without control.
Morn let Zastra empty of tears. She then went back into the kitchen, issuing a string of orders to the kitchen hands. She brought Zastra a steaming mug of hot, sweet chala.
‘I’ve run you a bath, duckie. I have to see to the castle supper now, but we’ll talk properly in the morning.’
Zastra was glad to sink into the large bath, filled with perfumed water. The long-forgotten luxury of a hot bath was delightful. F
indar too was bathed, slapping the water in his excitement and drenching poor Podrik, who was holding him with great care. After they had finished their baths Morn gave Zastra and Findar some clean nightclothes and bade Podrik show them to her own bedchamber. Once Findar was settled, Zastra sank into the soft mattress and fell into a deep, thankful sleep.
Chapter Thirty-four
Zastra woke late in the morning, refreshed but extremely hungry. She looked around for Findar, but he was not in the room with her. Throwing on a robe, she hurried to the kitchens, her rising panic calmed by the sight of Podrik holding her brother. It was hard to say who looked most pleased with himself, the large boy or Findar. The two of them made Zastra smile her first real smile for a long time. They were interrupted by Morn, who brought in a bowl of porridge and fresh buns, still piping hot, together with a large pot of chala. Zastra attacked the food in front of her, while Morn carried on with her work.
‘Steady, duckie!’ exclaimed Morn. ‘You could at least try and taste it. It would be a shame for you to make it this far only to choke to death.’
Zastra nodded but continued eating, occasional grunts of appreciation emerging from her food-filled mouth. When she had eaten her fill and was finishing the last of her chala, Morn stopped doing her chores and came and sat beside her. Podrik, still holding Findar, lowered himself into another nearby chair and forced his features into a serious, concentrated expression.
‘It’s alright, duckie, my Podrik’s no idiot, although some people might take him for one,’ said Morn. ‘He knows something’s up and so I’ve told him. Otherwise he’d have battered away at me ‘til I did tell him. He can be trusted with a secret though, you can rely on him.’ Podrik nodded in enthusiastic agreement.
‘However, before you say anything, remember to be careful what you tell us. There’s several of them black ravens in the castle. They don’t usually bother with the likes of us, but I’d not wish to give away anything important if my mind was looked into. Same with Podrik. Do you understand?’
Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set Page 18