Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  The Bractarian troops were underway as soon as dawn broke. The dogs had lost the scent in the rain, but Brutila was confident of their path: upwards and eastwards. The rain continued, fog steaming from the rocks as they reached the summit. An unwary dog bounded over the top and plunged to its death over the vertical cliff that dropped into the valley below. The captain of the troops was still peering cautiously down into the depths as Brutila loomed like a ghoul beside him, her grey uniform camouflaging her against the rock and enveloping mist.

  ‘We cannot see where they went,’ he said, water dripping from his nose. Brutila reached out with her mind but could not find what she was searching for. She called for a draught of cintara and drank it greedily. She felt her strength increase almost instantly. Probing into the mist, she detected a mind more than a league away. She thought she could pick up a glimmer of fear and cold, but the feeling was too faint to locate and receded even as she sensed it.

  ‘We’ll rest and eat,’ she said. A small delay wouldn’t matter now. The children had nowhere to go and no one to help them.

  After a short delay the rain began to lift, and a faint glow of pale sunlight seeped through the grey clouds. Slowly the valley began to clear. Using a telescope, Brutila scoured the valley in all directions. Finally, she found a small scrambling figure moving with painstaking slowness around the northern rim of the valley.

  ‘Move off,’ she ordered, snapping the telescope shut in satisfaction.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Zastra reached the head of the valley. Looking back, she could see no pursuers, yet the distant baying of dogs carried to her on the wind. They were closing. Wearily, she turned and looked ahead. She had reached the apex of three valleys. The one she had traversed, one to the northeast and a third valley to the southeast. The lower slopes of the southeast valley were covered in dense woodland and she made for the distant patch of green at the fastest pace she could manage.

  At last!’ exulted Brutila. A dark speck was visible high in the western sky, becoming larger as it closed on them, wings beating with an appearance of laziness. It charted a varied and indirect course, appearing to be searching for something. Brutila sent out a call with her mind. The beast ceased its meandering path and headed straight towards them. The troop had made only slow progress along the valley ridge. They had been forced to leave the horses behind, and the dogs and humans had struggled equally with the treacherous rocks and narrow ledges. Now that the migaradon was here they would have the advantage. The troop cowered in fear as the creature landed next to them, emitting its harsh, high-pitched cry. A black-robed figure sat on its back, wearing a steel helmet. The rider strained hard at the chains that served as reins and made no attempt to dismount.

  ‘You took your time,’ Brutila snapped.

  ‘I had to feed and rest the beast at Lyria, else we would not have had the range. It is always hungry,’ said the faceless rider.

  ‘Waste no more time,’ ordered Brutila. ‘Zastra and the baby. I saw them to the north not long since. They are likely to have reached the head of the valley by now. Find them and bring them back. I want them both alive, but I don’t mind if you have to damage them a little.’ A cruel smirk broke across her scar-ridden face. The helmeted rider nodded and kicked at the dark scales that covered the body of the migaradon. A heavy gust of air was driven down by the powerful wings as the beast rose into the air. Its flight was graceless and laboured, yet it made rapid progress. Reaching the head of the valley, it circled. Not finding what they were searching for, the creature made a wider circle, and then, with a shriek of triumph, it powered off to the southeast.

  Zastra heard the shrill cry and looked back in alarm. A distant speck appeared in the sky behind them, looking like a small bird, but she knew it was no bird. At such a distance, a mere bird would not be visible. She broke into a run. The patch of forest was close now, if only she could reach it in time. Findar began to cry as she jolted him awake in her haste, but there was no time to soothe him. She fought the overwhelming desire to look back at the onrushing creature. To do so would slow them down. All too soon, she felt the harsh beating of heavy membranous wings, like the breath of a living thing. Then, as she had been expecting, a searching probe tried to invade her mind. They wouldn’t make the trees in time. As the beast swooped, its shadow blotting out the sun, Zastra flung herself behind a large rock, crouching down in its shade. The migaradon’s claws scraped against the rock, only just missing Zastra’s head. As it wheeled up and round for another attack, Zastra glanced upward at the faceless helmet of the rider. Recalling what Gil had told her, she walled up her conscious thoughts and as she felt the mindweaver’s probe deepen she let loose her suppressed hurt and sorrow. The loss of her parents, leaving Kastara, the death of Teona and Martek – all of it flooded out. A terrible cry of pain rent the air and the winged beast veered away. Zastra felt the mindweaver’s probe snap away, and without hesitating she dashed towards the safety of the trees, expecting a further attack at any moment. None came.

  They reached the trees, ducking the cover they provided. Zastra tripped over a protruding root and pitched to the ground. Looking up through the gap in the canopy, she saw the migaradon, bucking and screaming in the air. She turned and ran deeper into the forest. As the trees became more densely packed around her, her progress slowed, but at least the canopy of leaves masked the sky. She took a sharp left turn, seeking to throw off her pursuers. Alas, the rider had brought the creature under control and back on their tail. A huge three-fingered claw reached down, raking through the trees to try and grab them, but the canopy was too thick to allow it easy entrance and the claw grasped only leaves. After several futile attempts the migaradon gave up trying to reach them, letting out a cry of anger and frustration. Nevertheless, it continued to follow. The mindweaver made no further attempts to dig into Zastra’s mind. Zastra dodged and weaved but the creature held fast to their tail. Through the thick web of trees, she stumbled, half sobbing with weariness. Behind her, the barking of the dogs grew louder. They must have picked up the scent. Zastra’s paced slowed. She was almost spent, unable to move at more than a desperate crawl. To her dismay, she sensed the trees were beginning to thin out, indicating her cover would soon run out. A steep slope rose up in front of her and she attempted to stagger upwards.

  ‘I’m sorry Findar,’ she sobbed in utter despair. An answering cry of woe echoed through the forest, somewhere to their left. Zastra moved towards it, drawn by the sympathetic emotion. She almost fell into the hole, weary as she was, scrabbling back just in time. She looked down. At the base of a deep pit stood a fellgryff, bellowing with misery. It looked young, not quite full grown, with a striking circle of darker hair around its neck. Zastra caught its eye, holding its gaze until the proud animal bowed, yielding. She sized up the situation. The fellgryff had been caught in a trap; a sheet covered in soil and leaves, no doubt originally concealing the pit, had been pulled down with it. The animal appeared unhurt, but was making frantic leaps in increasingly desperate attempts to jump out. Zastra looked down with pity. She had no time to stop, but couldn’t bear to leave the creature in such distress. Then a thought struck her. Perhaps if she could free the fellgryff, she could ride it and they might be able to outrun the dogs.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said to the fellgryff. Its sentient eyes looked at her, and it lifted its chin as if it was trying to understand. Scattered around the pit were rocks of various sizes. Laying Findar on the ground alongside her bag, Zastra began to hoist up the largest stones she could lift and cast them into the pit, trying not to hit the fellgryff as it shied away.

  ‘I’m trying to help,’ she explained, attempting to soothe the creature. It took many minutes and arm aching exertion before a small pile of rocks had built up. Eagerly, the fellgryff danced onto the pile and made a leap for safety. In spite of a prodigious jump, it fell short and slipped back down into the pit.

  ‘Wait, I’ll find more,’ Zastra cried, scouring around breathle
ssly. There were only a few more stones, which she threw on top of the existing pile. In despair, she realised it was still not high enough for the fellgryff to escape. The peaty ground gave a little beneath her, giving her an idea. Kicking away the edge of the hole, she was able to dig a small channel at an angle, a small ramp leading down into the pit. A fragment of flat rock helped her dig with increasing frenzy. The baying of the dogs was now so close that they had but moments. The channel in the side of the pit was a few feet deep and she pulled back, gesturing at the fellgryff. Understanding her wordless intent, it crouched down and sprang onto the pile of rocks and then up towards Zastra. Its front legs landed in the channel and, with Zastra tugging as hard as she could at the matted hair on its neck, it scrabbled out of the trap. It pranced sideways, shaking off the dirt.

  ‘Please wait,’ cried Zastra, picking up Findar and looking anxiously back down the slope. The first dog raced into view, followed by another, and then the whole pack. Zastra looked at the fellgryff. It bowed its two-pronged head. Using her very last reserves of strength, Zastra sprang onto its back, some kind of muscle memory holding her in place as the creature bucked and sprang into the air.

  ‘There they are!’ The yell came from below. A crossbow bolt ripped through the air. The fellgryff needed no urging to spring up the hill. Another bolt whipped by them, barely missing Zastra’s ducking head.

  The strong, bucking gait of the fellgryff soon drew them away from the soldiers. Before long the dogs also fell back. Findar howled in distress, the jerking of the fellgryff jolting him most severely but Zastra cried out with relief and exhilaration. However, her joy at their escape was short-lived. The tree canopy began to thin out alarmingly and the migaradon closed in again, sensing that its prey would soon be unprotected. Zastra steered left, trying to stay under the cover of the trees, but could only delay the inevitable. As they shot out of the trees and sprang up the bare slope towards the top of the mountainside, the migaradon dived down. It reached out with a triumphant yell. The fellgryff sprang sideways, almost throwing Zastra off with the suddenness and force of its movement. The migaradon howled in pain as its claw clashed empty-handed against the rocky mountainside. Ponderously it flapped its huge wings, circling up and round for another run. Again and again it dived down, and each time the fellgryff, with perfect timing and agility, sprang out of its ravening grasp. With a cry of wrath, the migaradon began to lift large rocks and drop them down at the escapees. One rock shattered on the ground and a wild splinter drew blood from Zastra’s cheek. The fellgryff continued undaunted, zig-zagging up the steep slope towards the top of the mountain.

  Brutila reached the edge of the treeline and took in the scene: the giant beast chasing a slender figure hunched on the back of a strange, ungainly animal. She called with her mind. Obediently the rider directed her mount to wheel back and land next to the grey figure.

  ‘I’ll do it myself,’ Brutila said, a wet gleam of impatience filling her pale eyes.

  ‘But you are not a rider,’ the mindweaver protested.

  ‘I am fully qualified,’ snapped Brutila. Laying her hand on the bridle, she merged her mind with the beast, quietening its madness. The rider relinquished control with some reluctance.

  ‘It is almost exhausted and will soon need rest and food,’ she warned, but Brutila had already kicked the beast into the air. Minutes later, the migaradon and its new rider had reached the brow of the ridge, just as Zastra and the fellgryff arrived.

  Zastra felt a spear of pain in her head, so harsh as to block out all senses. It broke through the firm mental wall that had become a constant part of her. She gasped, doubling over in agony. Her training and practice lent her just enough resistance to understand what was happening and prevent her losing consciousness completely, but the massive strength and weight of the attack was much more than any she had felt previously. Using all the mental blocking techniques she could muster, she worked to push back against the silent heaviness that oppressed her. A small window of sight came back to her, a pinprick through a cloud of darkness, but the pain did not diminish. She made out a blurred shadow descending towards her, but she was frozen and the fellgryff, obedient to her will, was stilled likewise. She heard, as if a great distance, the thin wail of a baby crying. ‘Findar,’ she gasped in sluggish recognition. The desire to help her brother broke through her fear and she found her vision clearing a little. The pain in her head dulled slightly, no longer quite crippling, although still debilitating. Everything seemed to be moving much more slowly than normal, and the sounds of the world were dulled, as if shrouded in soft, thick cushions. With painful slowness, she flicked her foot, the movement as difficult as swimming through thick syrup. The fellgryff, released from the thrall that had held it, leapt forward, but it was all an instant too late. A slashing pain ripped into Zastra’s back as one of the migaradon’s claws caught her with a vicious blow.

  ‘Now I have you!’ an alien voice echoed inside her mind. Striving to raise her head against the seeming weight of the whole sky, Zastra forced her eyes upwards. Seated astride the migaradon, she saw a grey-haired woman, a scar on her face giving her mouth the appearance of a terrible, lopsided grin.

  Brutila. The image of the cold, snowy mountain and a stranded child attacked by scrittals formed in Zastra’s head, mixed with powerful feelings of pity and fear, just as the grey woman dug deeper into her mind. The effect was shocking and instantaneous. The grey woman folded over, as if cracked, and the huge migaradon collapsed downwards, spinning like a corkscrew as it was drawn towards the ground. It crashed into the mountainside with a shocking impact, bounced once, and then plunged down the steep slope, rolling over and over, gathering an avalanche of rocks as its despairing wail carried back up the valley. Zastra looked in horror as the beast gained speed before crashing into the bank of trees. It was several moments before she realised that the agonising grip on her mind had lifted. She lost no more time in urging the fellgryff onwards, and they disappeared over the mountain ridge. A rainstorm came, torrents of water soaking through Zastra’s clothes. It would wash away their scent – the dogs and soldiers would never catch them now.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Etta, a farmer who made her living in the border mountains, looked anxiously out of her window. Her son, Dalbric, was late returning from checking his traps. She hoped he had found something this time; they would need a good stock of dried meat to see them through the harsh winter that was rapidly approaching.

  At last, his wiry figure emerged from the forest. He was running and carrying something with great care. As he burst through the door, Etta was shocked to hear a pitiful cry coming from the dirty bundle.

  ‘A baby!’ cried Dalbric. ‘And there’s a girl. I think she may be dead. Back in the forest. A creature – a fellgryff, I think, was with them, but it ran off. What shall we do, Ma?’

  ‘Calm down, Dalbric,’ said Etta, taking hold of the bundle. ‘Fetch the girl while I deal with the baby.’

  ‘Right,’ said Dalbric, crashing into the doorpost in his haste to depart.

  Etta plucked at the bundle, rocking back at the smell. It seemed the baby had not been attended to in several days. Tutting, she cleaned away the mess and tended to a nasty rash on the baby’s bottom. Blue eyes stared out from a pale face, meeting her eyes in an unspoken plea. Etta shook her head, battling a long-forgotten emotion that threatened to rise up within her.

  Dalbric returned carrying a lifeless girl. As they removed her damp clothes, Etta gasped. The girl’s back was disfigured by a large, bloody wound, a slash of two parallel lines that ran diagonally down from her left shoulder to her waist. Some cloth was stuck to the skin around the gash. Etta disengaged it gently and washed the injured area. The still form barely moved in response to these gentle ministrations, and Etta clucked in sorrow and amazement that such a thing had been allowed to happen. She worried for the girl.

  Within a day, as Etta had feared, a fever set in, the child alternating between icy shivering and a b
urning fever. Etta looked on, sensing the girl lay astride that thin line that separated the living from the dead. There was little she could do, other than to keep her warm and clean. It was a matter of whether the girl had the will to battle the fever and live.

  The baby boy, however, was thriving. Etta found herself drawn to the quiet stoicism of the little fellow. She knew she could not become attached to the children. They had precious little food, barely enough even for herself and Dalbric – the last thing they needed was more mouths to feed. As she watched, the little baby crawled with great determination across the floor towards his young companion, who lay unconscious on the hearthrug. He attempted to rouse his sister with the touch of his chubby little hands. When she didn’t wake, he laid his head on her stomach and fell asleep. Etta was moved in spite of herself, and she stared at them for a long time before finally rousing herself to perform the chores that had been too long delayed.

  The days grew shorter, heralding the long mountain winter. Still the older child hovered between life and death. The fever had lessened somewhat, but her sleep was troubled, her frail body jerking with hidden nightmares. Etta watched in concern, shivering as she contemplated what the poor girl might be suffering.

  Late one evening, as the wind whistled around the mountain, Etta and Dalbric were startled by a rap at the door. Visitors were extremely rare, especially so late, since their dwelling was several leagues from the nearest village. Etta glanced at their guests, sleeping together in front of the fire, and jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen. Dalbric nodded in understanding and disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing shortly afterwards with a sharp knife and a mallet. His face was filled with grim resolve. He gave the knife to Etta. Only then did she go over to the door and open it.