Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

Zastra placed a calming hand on Dalbric’s arm

  ‘We have only two tocrins,’ she explained. The herbalist snatched up the yaya-root and put it back in the tin.

  ‘I’ve told you the price and, before you ask, I don’t give credit. I’ve been swindled by mountain folk before. Always wanting what you can’t afford.’

  ‘Please!’ Dalbric begged. ‘My Ma will die without it.’

  The herbalist placed the precious tin on a high shelf behind his counter. Dalbric eyed it longingly.

  The herbalist scowled. ‘I’m good friends with the captain of the guards. So don’t think of trying anything,’ he warned.

  The man in the green jacket stepped forward and placed the smaller of the bottles of purple liquid on the counter.

  ‘You could try Pugara,’ he suggested. ‘She sometimes sells herbs. Cheaper than here.’

  The herbalist glared at the interloper, scooped up the bottle of medicine and began to wrap it in brown paper.

  ‘Pugara is a rogue and thief,’ he said. ‘She’s not even registered and doesn’t pay taxes.’

  The green-jacketed man shrugged. ‘My friend, I would much rather these fine folk purchased from your excellent establishment, but it seems you cannot supply their needs at a price they can afford.’

  ‘Where can we find this Pugara?’ Zastra asked.

  ‘She does her business out of the Smithy Inn, down near the river.’

  Dalbric frowned.

  ‘Etta always warned me to stay away from that part of Kirkholme. Full of thieves and worse, she says.’

  The man paid the herbalist, took his parcel and put it in his pocket.

  ‘It isn’t the prettiest part of town, for sure. But the poor need somewhere to live and if you want something cheap, that’s where you’ll find it. Besides, you two look like you can take care of yourselves.’

  Zastra didn’t like the way he was looking them up and down. There was something greedy in his appraisal, as if he was setting a value on them.

  ‘Why are you helping us?’

  The man rolled his eyes. ‘Everyone’s so suspicious these days. Look, take my advice, or don’t. It’s up to you.’

  He turned to leave. Zastra and Dalbric exchanged glances and together they ran out after the man.

  ‘Where is this Smithy Inn?’ Zastra asked.

  The man pointed towards a building with yellow-painted walls. ‘Turn left at the Payment Office and then follow the path down the hill. The inn is the one with the horseshoe sign over the door. I’d take you there myself but—’

  ‘You’re too scared to go to that part of town?’ Zastra finished.

  ‘Listen, girl. You seemed desperate, so I told you what I know. Your gratitude is most welcome, or it would be, if you bothered to show any.’

  The man didn’t wait for a response before heading away, shaking his head.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Dalbric murmured.

  ‘We don’t have a choice. We’ve got to get Etta this medicine.’

  They headed towards the yellow building where, just as the man had said, they found a muddy path leading downhill through a sparse patch of trees. The well-kept shops and houses of the main part of Kirkholme disappeared in favour of canvas tents and rickety sheds of rotting wood. Here and there animal skins were stretched out to dry alongside patched-up clothing, pegged to fraying lines. Zastra thought she recognised scrittal skulls amongst the mounds of rubbish and ashes that lay in front of the dwellings. There were few people about, and those that were stared at them in an unfriendly manner. The path became muddier as they approached the river. Puddles of brown water filled imprints made by passing boots. They tried to skirt the worst of them, but even so their boots got sucked into the sticky morass. Zastra shuddered as cold water seeped between her laces and down between her toes.

  ‘That must be it.’ Dalbric nodded towards a low building constructed of moss-covered logs as thick as his waist. There were no windows, just a narrow door hanging unevenly on its hinges. A rusty horseshoe hung above the entrance. They waded through mud that came up to their calves and pushed open the door. Zastra’s eyes took a few moments to adjust to the gloom. There wasn’t much to look at. The floor was just a square of compacted mud and the moss on the logs was not limited to the outside. The whole place was dank and dismal. There were only three people inside. One man sat slumped against a narrow bar in one corner. He raised his head briefly, gave them a glassy stare, and sank back down. In the far corner, a plump woman with grey hair tied in two thick plaits sat in an equally plump armchair, surrounded by piles of crates and suitcases and next to her stood a huge man, with a nose that appeared to have been broken in many places.

  ‘Are you Pugara?’ Zastra stepped towards the armchair, only to find her path blocked by the giant.

  ‘Who sent you?’ Pugara’s border accent was strong, her tone sharp.

  ‘A man. Short and stocky, wearing a green jacket.’

  The woman beckoned them forward. Her huge bodyguard gave Zastra a hard stare before allowing them just enough room to squeeze past. Pugara’s lips twitched upwards in what might have passed for a smile, but Zastra noted that her eyes stayed sharp and, just like the green-jacketed man, she looked them up and down closely.

  ‘Sit down, dearies.’ Despite the endearment, it was a command, not a suggestion. Zastra looked around for a chair but Pugara was occupying the only available one, so she squatted on the corner of a small crate. Dalbric found a perch on a small barrel. He kept his backpack on his shoulders ready to move quickly if he had to. Zastra did the same.

  ‘What do you need?’

  Zastra glanced at Dalbric, who did not take his eyes off the giant.

  ‘Yaya-root. Do you have any?’

  Pugara raised a thick eyebrow.

  ‘Miner’s lung, eh? Not one of you though, I hope? You both look too young for such a disease. How old are you, dearies?’

  ‘Is that important? Do you have any or not?’

  Zastra didn’t bother to hide her impatience, eager to get their business done and leave this place as soon as possible. She scanned the room. Aside from the door they had entered through, the only other exit was a narrow opening behind the bar in the corner.

  ‘I like to know who I’m selling to.’ Pugara sat back in her chair and folded her arms. She was clearly not going to sell them anything until they had answered her questions.

  ‘We don’t know how old we are,’ Zastra lied. ‘We don’t count these things in the mountains.’

  That turned out to be only the first of Pugara’s questions. Some they answered truthfully, sometimes they lied, and the questioning went on and on. Zastra became increasingly apprehensive. It was almost as if Pugara was trying to keep them here. When the plump woman asked her what her favourite food was, Zastra decided that enough was enough. She leapt off her crate, took their two precious tocrins from her pocket and thrust them under Pugara’s nose.

  ‘I don’t see why you need to know my favourite food to sell us yaya-root. Here’s our money. If it’s not good enough for you, we’ll leave.’

  ‘Calm down, dearie.’

  Pugara eased herself out of the armchair and began to rummage around in her various crates and suitcases. At length she found a bamboo cloth sack and opened it out. Zastra recognised the small brown bulbs. They were poor specimens compared with the herbalist’s. Some of the bulbs were tiny, others had damaged skins, but it was a big bundle and she reckoned it might be enough to see Etta through the winter. The bodyguard held out his hand for the money and Zastra had just placed the coins in his giant palm when the door to the inn burst open. Three Kyrgs charged in, their serrated scythal blades flashing in the dim light.

  ‘It’s a trap!’ Zastra cried. She snatched the yaya root from Pugara’s grasp and dragged a stupefied Dalbric towards the corner exit she had seen earlier. It was their only hope of escape. The man who had been slumped across the bar the whole time chose that moment to rise up to block their way, but Zastra kicked ou
t and swept his feet from under him, knocking him to the floor. She ducked as a scythal blade flashed by her ear.

  ‘Don’t kill them, idiots,’ she heard Pugara shout. ‘I only get my reward if they’re alive.’

  They ducked through the opening and into a store room even darker than the room they had left. A rectangular outline opposite indicated another doorway, perhaps to the outside. They dodged around stacks of barrels and crates. As she ran past, Zastra kicked at the barrels, causing them to crash down into the path of their pursuers. They reached the door, but it refused to open. Dalbric tried to force it with a shoulder charge, but it held fast.

  ‘Locked!’ he groaned. Zastra’s heart sank. Of course. Pugara was no fool. She had meant to trap them all along, and would have made sure there was no way to escape.

  Behind them the Kyrgs struggled to scramble over the barrels that Zastra had knocked down into their path, but that wouldn’t hold them much longer.

  ‘The axe!’ she cried. Dalbric swung his backpack from his shoulders and pulled out their new purchase. With a few hefty swings he smashed the door to pieces. A large hand clapped onto Zastra’s shoulder. She spun round and used both hands to lever the Kyrg off her and aimed a stout kick at his stomach. Her opponent doubled over with a grunt of pain and she took her chance to follow Dalbric through what was left of the door. They came out into the gloom of late evening with just enough light to see that they were on a narrow wooden walkway that was raised above the surface of the river. It skirted round the back of the inn. As they dashed round the corner, a huge shadow stepped out and grabbed Zastra by her collar, lifting her into the air. It was Pugara’s bodyguard. She wriggled as hard as she could but he was too strong and she could not escape. Zastra threw the yaya-root bundle at Dalbric.

  ‘Run!’ she cried. ‘I’ll catch you up.’

  Even as she said the words, she knew that her position was hopeless. There was no escape for her, but Dalbric still had a chance, if only he would take it. Two Kyrgs pounded round the corner of the walkway and, with a last look of remorse, Dalbric fled into the gloom. Zastra tried once again to wriggle free, but the Kyrg who she had kicked in the stomach stopped in front of her and grinned as he aimed a blow at her head. Stunned, she could only struggle feebly as her arms were yanked behind her and her wrists bound together. Another blow sent her spinning into darkness.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kylen hated the ruined city of Golgannan. What had once been a vibrant city with paved streets, tall fountains and stately buildings was now a wasteland of broken rocks and splintered wood, left empty and desolate at Thorlberd’s command as a deliberate reminder to the Sendoran people of the futility of resistance. She shivered, but not from the cold, even though dusk was beginning to settle upon the deserted streets of the city that had once been the capital of her beloved Sendor. Its ancient buildings had been well known; the tower of the ancient warriors, the glorious fighting arena, and the vast music dome renowned for its pink granite walls decorated with eye-catching fellgryff engravings. All the work of Joraz, Sendor’s greatest stoneworker, and all destroyed. The ghost of her father walked these streets, and as much as she had loved him, she had no desire to meet it. Sendoran lore said that the spirits of defeated warriors were destined to walk the earth for a thousand years as punishment for failure. Her father’s shade would be tormented by what had become of his country. Perhaps Hylaz was right. What use was capturing a few wagons of weapons when Golgannan was gone and Sendor ruled by Golmeirans? Better she had died here with him. Hylaz was watching her closely.

  ‘You could have done nothing had you been here, my lady. Your father did right to send you and Zadorax away. You were both too young.’

  Kylen did not want comfort. She needed to feel the pain that she deserved for being alive whilst so many were dead. For being helpless, unable to stop the suffering of her people.

  ‘You presume too much on our friendship, Hylaz.’ The words came out more harshly than she intended and the big man said no more.

  General Alboraz, leader of the largest of the Sendoran resistance groups, had sent word that he needed to speak with her. She suspected he chose Golgannan as their meeting place deliberately. Alboraz had been charged with protecting Kylen and Zax, and the old general still resented being forced into the role of babysitter rather than taking part in the last great battle for Sendor. He had never forgiven Kylen for it. It annoyed her that Alboraz felt he had the right to summon her. She would be his liege lord, just as soon as she was of age, yet he treated her like a child.

  The sharp cry of a hawk was followed by the rumble of iron clad wheels.

  ‘About time.’ Kylen stepped forward, but even as she did so, her intuition told her something was wrong. Beside her, Hylaz cupped his hands and gave their usual signal. The only response was a horse’s whickering. Kylen drew her sword.

  ‘It’s not Alboraz.’

  Hylaz made a few silent signals and the team spread out. A covered wagon rolled towards them, driven by two Golmeiran soldiers. Two outriders on horses were oblivious to their danger. Kylen stepped out from behind a broken column and yanked one of the outriders from his horse by the ankle and had her sword at his throat before he even knew what was going on. Hylaz unseated the other outrider and knocked her out with a sharp blow to her head. The wagon driver threw her hands up in instant surrender. Hylaz walked round to the back of the wagon and pulled aside the hemp covering. Inside, three Sendorans were chained to an iron bolt sunk into the wagon’s base.

  ‘Thank the stars!’ said one of them, a stocky woman with a strong jaw and well-defined biceps.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded Kylen. ‘How did you allow yourselves to be captured?’

  ‘We were betrayed. A Golmeiran mindweaver infiltrated one of the villages we used as a base. His soldiers were waiting for us.’

  ‘And you surrendered?’ Kylen didn’t hide her contempt. The woman bowed her head in shame as Hylaz instructed the driver to free the prisoners.

  ‘Where were they taking you?’

  The prisoner directed her reply at Kylen’s feet.

  ‘I heard them say Castanton. We were to be put on a ship.’

  ‘A ship?’ Kylen asked in disbelief. ‘Where were they sending you?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask them?’ The woman nodded towards the Golmeiran prisoners, who were huddled together in a group.

  ‘We don’t know anything,’ the driver protested hastily. ‘We were to pass them over to a ship’s captain, that’s all I know.’

  ‘What ship?’

  ‘The Valiant.’

  Hylaz snorted. ‘Fine name for a Golmeiran ship.’

  The driver knew no more and neither did any of her compatriots. Kylen ordered them to be chained to the wagon in place of the Sendorans. A strong bellow boomed out from the edge of the city. Hylaz answered and two men emerged from the gloom mounted on prancing fellgryffs. They dismounted and one threw back his hood to reveal a man of middle years, his head and beard both closely shaved. His blue eyes were colder than a mountain spring.

  ‘I might ask why you are making enough noise to scare up a troop of Golmeirans, but my lady always does as she pleases.’

  ‘Nice to see you too, General Alboraz,’ Kylen returned stiffly, leaving it to Hylaz to explain.

  Alboraz rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘This is not the first time I’ve heard of our people being taken down to the coast. We don’t know what happens to them. None have ever escaped, or returned.’

  ‘So you have no firm information,’ Kylen remarked. ‘How is my brother?’

  Alboraz returned her look levelly. ‘I left the lad safe, as per my last orders from my lord, your father. The lad wants to fight, even though his broadsword as yet lies too heavy in his hand. The spirit of Sendor is strong within him, like his father, but unlike some, he does as he’s told.’

  ‘I will soon be of age. When I am your liege lord, I will expect—’

  He cut her off brusquely.


  ‘Until you are old enough, you will obey me. Your father granted me stewardship. We’ve more important things to worry about than your pride, lass. The Golmeirans have recruited a new army. My sources say they aim to destroy us as punishment for our resistance. I am taking all the remaining strength left in Sendor with me west to meet them.

  ‘Very well. I am ready to fight.’

  Alboraz shook his head.

  ‘I have another task for you. There are rumours of Kyrgs massing by our northern border. I must know if it is true.’

  ‘Kyrgs!’ spat Kylen. ‘I won’t have it. In fact, I don’t believe it. The Kyrgs would never dare invade us. This is a ploy to keep me away from the real fighting. I won’t be denied. Not again.’

  The general grabbed her bicep. His grip was so firm that her fingers went numb.

  ‘I do not lie. Perhaps the Kyrgs see our weakness and mean to take advantage. Or Thorlberd may have renewed the old alliance. Either way, we must know. We cannot let them cross the border.’

  Until she was of age, she was bound to obey him.

  ‘Fine.’ She shrugged him off. ‘I shall go and find these mythical Kyrgs and teach them a lesson in Sendoran manners. You can have these.’ She waved dismissively in the general direction of the woman and the other Sendorans they had rescued. ‘I have no use for such poor soldiers.’

  Alboraz bowed in an exaggerated Golmeiran style. An obvious insult, but she had no choice but to let it go. She only hoped Alboraz was as good a soldier as everyone said he was. If the Golmeirans were indeed sending another army, a miracle would be needed to save them.

  Chapter Twelve

  Zastra looked around the dim interior of the wagon as it clattered and juddered along the uneven track. Her fellow prisoners were an odd bunch, she could see that even in the gloom. By her side, a young girl with a dark complexion sat hugging her legs against her chest, her forehead resting on her knees. Opposite, a wiry youth grinned at her with knowing impudence. Most surprising of all was the Kyrg. Like Zastra, his hands were tied behind his back. He stared straight ahead, refusing to look at anyone else. Unlike every Kyrg Zastra had ever seen, he was not wearing the black uniform of her uncle’s army. A column of air on either side separated him from his nearest neighbours. Zastra was not surprised. No one wanted to touch a Kyrg. You never knew what disease you might catch. The only good thing about Zastra’s situation was the absence of Dalbric. Hopefully, that meant he had escaped. Four Golmeiran soldiers sat at the back of the wagon, penning them in.