Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  They headed back. Zastra looked at her companion, struggling to make him out.

  ‘Why don’t the other Kyrgs like you?’

  Ithgol didn’t break stride.

  Zastra sighed. ‘Between you and Jerenik, there’s one normal person. He never stops talking, and you never say anything.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘How can I understand if you don’t tell me? Look, you saved my life, which in my view makes us friends. Friends talk to each other.’

  Ithgol slowed his pace and half turned towards her.

  ‘You would be friends with a Kyrg?’

  Zastra shrugged. ‘It surprises me as much as it does you, but… yes, I suppose I would.’

  Ithgol pulled up.

  ‘I am Mordaka. Outcast. If I ever return to the Northern Wastes, I will be put to death. The others know this and only their obedience to your Golmeiran officers stops them carrying out the sentence.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Tried to save my sister’s life.’

  He set off again, covering the ground quickly. Zastra was forced to jog to keep up, but even so she began to lag behind. They were halfway back to where they had left Jerenik when he stopped to take a drink from his flask. Zastra had lost her own flask during the attack and she eyed his longingly. He passed it to her.

  ‘Look at you, sharing things,’ she said with a grin. The water was pleasant against her parched throat but she took only a few sips. Apart from the stream where they had caught the snake they had seen no fresh water.

  ‘A Kyrg is taught to show his strength. Food is scarce in the Northern Wastes, and the weakest are sacrificed before winter comes. We call it the Culling.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘When you’ve only food for a hundred people, you must choose, else all will starve. Death at the culling ceremony is an honoured sacrifice.’

  ‘What if someone refuses?’

  ‘A Kyrg obeys orders from higher ranks without question. No one has ever refused.’

  ‘Why do you choose to live in such a barren place? If you lived in more fertile lands there would be no need for such brutal ceremonies.’

  Ithgol let out a strange sound, half bark, half laugh.

  ‘Kyrgs were a peaceful race until we were forced out of our ancestral home in the Helgarths by your Grand Marl Fostran. He banished us to the Northern Wastes.’

  ‘Peaceful? The story of Fostran fighting off a pack of Kyrgs single-handed is one of our best known legends.’

  ‘Tales told by victors are often twisted. What weapons did the Kyrgs carry in this story?’

  ‘Axes, scythes and pitchforks.’ Fostran’s battle with the Kyrgs had been Zastra’s favourite among all those about the legendary Warriors of Golmeira. She knew all the details by heart.

  ‘Exactly. Farm tools.’

  ‘But you attack our people in the Helgarths,’ she protested. ‘Hardly the act of a peaceful race. There are other stories too—’

  Ithgol broke in angrily.

  ‘We are not Skurgs,’ he snapped. ‘We steal only what we need to survive.’

  ‘So you have never… um, eaten people?’

  He emitted a low growl. ‘Long ago, the Skurgs lived with us, our brothers and sisters of the grey hair. They were a small clan. It is said that the first winter after Fostran banished us, the Skurgs chose to feed upon their own, rather than starve. And so they were cast out.’

  ‘What happened with your sister?’

  ‘She had a fever. She would have recovered in time, but the summer hunting had been poor that year. Stores were low and she was one of many Jelgar chose for the Culling.’

  Ithgol kicked at a loose pebble and watched it skid off into the distance.

  ‘She accepted her fate. I could not. I persuaded her to flee with me, but the winter that year came early. She did not survive.’

  The flow of words was interrupted by Jerenik, who had come looking for them, shading his eyes against the evening sun. ‘Where’ve you been? Did you find anything to eat?’ He made a grab for the bag but Zastra yanked it out of his reach.

  ‘We’ll have to wait until dark. We don’t want the Skurgs to see the smoke.’

  ‘Surely it’s worth the risk. My stomach is eating itself.’

  ‘Wait,’ growled Ithgol, reverting to his old, monosyllabic self. Only when it was fully dark did they dig a pit and light the fire. The lizard flesh was pungent and unpleasant and the river snake proved to have more bones than flesh so their hunger was only partly satisfied. Jerenik began to fidget again.

  ‘How much longer do we just sit here? I’m freezing to death. Your doing a poor job of looking after an invalid.’

  ‘If it weren’t for us, you’d be in a Skurg stewpot by now,’ Zastra reminded him.

  ‘At least I’d be warm.’

  The sound of chanting came to them on the night air.

  ‘Celebrating their victory,’ muttered Ithgol. Zastra shivered, recalling the horrors of the morning. She was more determined than ever that neither Dastrin nor Thorlberd would get their hands on the sintegrack. They could destroy whole towns with such a weapon. She wrapped her arms around herself to try and keep warm.

  ‘Ithgol, how did Burgal know you were an outcast?’

  Ithgol held out his left arm, palm upward. A line of circular tattoos, of different designs and colours, ran up the inside of his forearm. ‘A tattoo is added each year, for those that are not culled. I have not had one since I ran away and so my treachery is clear.’

  ‘I wondered what they were. Why are some different colours?’

  ‘Colour represents rank. See where mine change from orange to green? That was the year I was promoted to the second rank.’

  ‘Why don’t you just tattoo yourself as a guthan?’ suggested Jerenik. ‘Give yourself red ones like Burgal has? I could do it for you.’

  Ithgol grabbed Jerenik’s throat in one hand.

  ‘That would be the deepest dishonour. Only a thief like you would suggest such a thing.’

  Zastra tried to pull him away, but Ithgol’s arm was like a block of stone. Jerenik’s face began to go purple and his eyes bulged.

  ‘Let him go, Ithgol. We can’t afford to fight amongst ourselves.’

  Ithgol released Jerenik with a shove. Jerenik massaged his throat, glaring at the Kyrginite. Somehow, I have to get them to work together, thought Zastra. I just wish I knew how.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘My lady, surely you are not serious?’

  ‘We are used to achieving the impossible, Hylaz,’ Kylen responded, but even she frowned as she examined the Golmeiran encampment. There must be thousands of soldiers, well organised, with tents in neat lines and sentries patrolling every entrance and exit. General Ixendred was an effective adversary. They had sneaked past several intelligently placed sentries to get even this close.

  ‘We can’t even be certain Zadorax is here.’

  ‘Where else could he be? We know that Rastran was responsible for that… that outrage.’

  Kylen shuddered. Even from her position deep within the caves she had felt the earth tremble. One of their people had managed to stagger back to tell them about the terrible weapon, and describe the crowing Golmeiran who had taken her brother prisoner.

  ‘That cowardly flekk must be here. The supply wagon we captured yesterday was full of wine and other delicacies. Only someone like Rastran would demand such luxuries. If only we knew which is his tent.’ She continued to scour the encampment.

  ‘Even then, how can we hope to get into the camp unnoticed? Let alone out again.’

  ‘We have to try. I should never have agreed to let Zax be part of the ambush. If he hadn’t been so close to the surface, he would still be safe.’

  Hylaz sighed heavily. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  At the edge of the Golmeiran camp a sentry leaned against a large rock and watched a lopsided wagon loaded with barrels inch towards him. It was driven by a lar
ge man with a bent back and a thatch of grey hair that looked as if it had not been washed in years.

  ‘Halt. Let’s see your papers.’

  ‘Eh?’ The waggoneer scratched his disgusting hair and a couple of insects flew out. The sentry took one step backwards, trying not to gag.

  ‘Papers.’

  The old man patted his chest and began to rummage around his filthy rags. At last he produced a dirty scrap of paper.

  ‘Provisions for Lord Rastran.’ He gave a damp sniff. The sentry examined the papers.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Had to fix the wheel.’ The sentry inspected the cart. The front wheel was made of recently hewn wood, raw and unfinished. He stepped back and pointed out a large cabin of freshly cut wood. ‘That’s Lord Rastran’s residence. He’ll be pleased to see you.’

  The man nudged the cart forwards.

  ‘Good work,’ came a whisper from inside one of the barrels. ‘But check your wig. I think it’s slipped.’

  The man planted a large hand on the top of his head and rotated the grey wig in a small circle.

  ‘How’s that, my lady?’

  ‘Hideous. But it’ll do. Time to give Lord Rastran his special delivery.’

  No one paid them any attention as they parked the wagon in front of Rastran’s residence. Hylaz dealt quickly and silently with the two guards that stood outside. It was a solid structure; Kylen reckoned it must have taken several days even to dig the foundations in such stony ground. What a waste of time and effort. Rastran clearly did not deign to sleep in a tent like the rest of his army. They eased their way into the cabin. Kylen recognised Rastran instantly. He was taller than she remembered, but still had the same black hair and insolent manner. He was alone, seated on a chair with his feet resting on a table.

  ‘How dare you—’ His face contorted with shock as Kylen swept his chair from underneath him and pinned him to the floor, her knee on his chest.

  ‘G-guards!’

  ‘They can’t hear you,’ Hylaz informed him. ‘Golmeirans have such weak heads.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Kylen demanded. ‘Where is my brother?’

  Ixendred was busy auditing his army’s provisions. A dull, but important task. He had asked not to be disturbed and was therefore extremely irritated when one of his captains poked his head through his tent flap.

  ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’

  ‘Apologies, Master at Arms, but I think something is going on in Lord Rastran’s quarters.’

  ‘His quarters? You mean that ridiculous little palace he had built? I’d quite happily burn it down. You know he had wood sent from Golmeira to build it? Sendoran trees weren’t good enough.’

  ‘There seems to be some kind of disturbance.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less what our princeling is doing. Sort it out yourself.’

  The guard hesitated.

  ‘The last soldier who went into Lord Rastran’s quarters without invitation was whipped for impertinence.’

  Ixendred sighed. It probably was just Rastran playing his usual games, but he had learned over the years never to assume anything. He was responsible for Rastran’s safety after all.

  ‘I suppose we’d best go and check.’

  ‘We need to leave, my lady.’

  Kylen redoubled her pressure on Rastran’s chest. ‘Tell me where my brother is.’

  The door to the cabin burst open and Ixendred and three Golmeiran soldiers barrelled in. They stopped short at the scene in front of them. Ixendred dropped into a polite bow.

  ‘I see Lord Rastran has visitors,’ he remarked. ‘Lady Kylen, I presume?’

  ‘Tell me where my brother is, or Thorlberd’s pup will die.’

  Ixendred gave an open-handed gesture.

  ‘Go ahead. You’d be doing me a favour.’

  A stifled cry of rage emerged from beneath Kylen’s knee.

  ‘You really want me to kill Thorlberd’s eldest son?’

  ‘It would rid me of an inconvenience. Although I would have to kill you in retaliation. Whereas if you lay down your weapon I’ll spare your life. I have twenty more guards outside. You cannot escape.’

  Kylen’s lip curled and she made no attempt to move.

  ‘I don’t fear death.’

  ‘That is quite evident. Attacking our camp with just one companion is not the act of someone who values survival.’

  Rastran glared up at her and then his eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll make you pay for this.’ Kylen reasserted her downward pressure.

  ‘Your mind-meddling doesn’t work on me. Or had you forgotten?’

  She eased the tip of her sword into Rastran’s neck and drew a bead of blood.

  ‘H-he’s been sent to Murthen Island,’ Rastran stammered.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘I d-don’t know. The location is a secret.’

  Kylen twitched her sword by a fraction. Rastran’s words came out in a high-pitched flood.

  ‘It’s in the Sea of Golmeira, somewhere southeast of Castanton. That’s all I know.’

  Almost before he had finished, Kylen and Hylaz exchanged a quick nod and together sprang through the open window. Ixendred stepped over Rastran.

  ‘Seize them!’ he cried.

  Kylen jumped onto the cart and spurred the horses into life while Hylaz scrambled into the back. There was no sign of any soldiers. Ixendred had been bluffing. The Master at Arms and his three companions burst from the cabin door. Hylaz began to heave the contents of the cart at them. The Golmeirans were forced to dodge the heavy barrels that bounced and rolled into their path.

  ‘Do have some wine,’ cried the big Sendoran, flinging a barrel towards Ixendred. ‘Compliments of Sendor.’

  The barrel burst as it hit the ground, drenching their pursuers in dark red liquid. Relieved of its heavy load the cart sped up as it thundered towards the edge of the camp. The perimeter guards were sent diving out of the way as the horses charged through.

  ‘Horses!’ cried Ixendred, wiping the red wine from his face. ‘Fetch me our fastest horses.’

  Unfortunately for Ixendred, the horses were stabled at the opposite side of the camp and by the time they had been brought the Sendorans had disappeared into the mountains. Rastran emerged from his residence to confront Ixendred.

  ‘I shall not forget your treachery.’

  ‘Do not confuse tactics with betrayal,’ Ixendred returned. ‘I was trying to distract her.’

  ‘You would have let her kill me.’

  ‘I wanted her to believe that. Or to keep her guessing at least. You’re alive aren’t you?’

  Rastran dabbed a finger to his neck. His fingertip came away with a red smear of blood.

  ‘I want them found. Send the whole army after them if you have to.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Ixendred snapped. ‘If we scatter the army about these mountains, they will be easy pickings for any Sendoran with a crossbow.’

  ‘I insist you do as I command.’

  ‘Have you forgotten your father’s instructions? I am in charge here, not you.’

  Rastran screwed his features so tight that his skin, already pale, became as white as chalk.

  ‘Very well. I will go to Murthen Island myself and see to the punishment of that brat Zadorax personally. If his sister comes for him, this time I shall be ready.’

  ‘Try not to enjoy yourself too much.’ Ixendred didn’t bother to hide his repugnance.

  ‘I’ll take the Bractarian Guard with me. I don’t trust the Kyrgs.’

  Ixendred clenched his jaw but made no protest. The Bractarian Guard were his best soldiers but it would be worth it to be rid of Rastran.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The singing had long since ceased. The crescent moons passed their zenith and Ithgol and Zastra agreed it was finally time to move. They approached the stockade cautiously. Ithgol set his back against the wooden spikes and planted his feet. Zastra clambered onto his shoulders, reached for the top of the fence and pulled herself up. Je
renik followed. Zastra had seen some acrobats perform a similar move when she was a child. She and Jerenik wedged their feet between the sharp points at the top of the stockade and crouched down to grab Ithgol’s hands.

  ‘He’s too heavy!’ gasped Jerenik as they heaved the Kyrg upwards. They pulled so hard that they overbalanced and landed inside the stockade in an inelegant bundle of arms and legs.

  ‘Oof!’ grunted Ithgol.

  ‘Great plan, mountain girl.’

  ‘We made it, didn’t we? Is everyone all right?’

  Zastra took the silence as affirmation. A small patch of light illuminated two Skurgs seated next to the stone trapdoor. Ithgol marched over. In the dark, he looked no different from them. The Kyrgs stood in greeting and he cracked their heads together with a sickening thud. The Skurgs collapsed silently to the ground.

  ‘Time to work my magic.’ Jerenik bent down to examine a large keyhole in the middle of the stone slab.

  ‘Or we could just use this.’

  Zastra removed a chain from around the neck of one of the Skurgs. On it, hung a large key which fitted into the lock. Beneath the trapdoor, wooden steps led down into the darkness. Zastra took up the lamp and made her way down into a square bunker. Directly in front of them was a solid wooden door, with two more on either side. All the doors were locked and the trapdoor key did not fit any of the locks.

  ‘Okay, now it’s time for your magic.’

  Zastra stood back and Jerenik produced a pair of thin metal implements, each with a hook at the end. After moment’s fiddling he had unlocked the door opposite the steps. The door creaked as they opened it. A loud yell made them jump.

  ‘Who’s there?’ It was a female voice, strident and angry. ‘I demand you let us out.’ A fist pounded on the door to their left, breaking the silence of the night.

  ‘Hush!’ whispered Zastra urgently. ‘We are not your gaolers. Who are you?’

  ‘Who are you?’ came the riposte, none too polite.

  ‘Someone who could help you escape, if only you keep your voice down and tell me who you are.’

  ‘Golmeiran, are you?’ asked the voice, a little more evenly. ‘You sound like it from your accent. Border regions?’