Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘Although it would help if we could draw Ixendred out,’ she said. Alboraz had a suggestion.

  ‘The autumn jula crop has recently been harvested. There will be thousands of barrels ready to be transported to Golmeira. Ixendred cannot afford to lose something of such value.’

  The Jula Mountains lay to their north. Kylen allowed defeated Golmeiran soldiers to flee rather than capture or kill them. It wasn’t as if they had enough food for prisoners and she hoped the Golmeirans would take word back to Ixendred. She was surprised at how few Kyrgs they encountered, until Alboraz explained that most were stationed with Ixendred at Castanton, or deployed at the most important fortresses.

  ‘Ixendred likes to keep a close eye on his Kyrg allies,’ Alboraz said. ‘Either he doesn’t trust them, or he doesn’t want to waste them on anything that isn’t strategically vital.’

  Kylen was glad of it. Kyrgs made tough opponents and it would do her no good to antagonise those who might soon be their allies.

  As they marched further north, the rain turned to sleet and then to snow. They reached the Jula Mountains, on whose shale covered slopes grew the jula berry trees. The walled town of Kricklend served as the main collection point for the harvest. Kylen halted a day’s march away and sent scouts ahead. The Golmeirans had grown complacent after years of unopposed occupation and there was only a small guard placed on the town gates, with a handful of black ravens in attendance. Kylen and her army closed on the town during the night and she gave the order to attack just as the gates opened for the day. The surprised garrison didn’t even have time to close the gates before they were set upon. The mindweavers in their black robes proved no obstacle. Kylen’s army included plenty of true-blooded Sendorans, resistant to their powers.

  The town secured, Kylen sent scouts to the south and waited. Before long word came that Ixendred had set out from Castanton with a large army.

  ‘This is not a great defensive position,’ said Alboraz. ‘The ease of our victory proved that. Your friend Zastra had better be on her way.’

  ‘She’ll be here,’ Kylen said confidently. Although as the snow grew thicker, she couldn’t help looking towards the white peaks of the Northern Wastes. She wondered how much longer the pass would stay open. Where are you, Zastra?

  Chapter Fifty-five

  By Zastra’s reckoning, she wasn’t even halfway up the Warrior Mountain and already she was struggling. Her boots broke through the thin crust on top of the snow and she sank up to her knees. It was like wading through cold porridge. Her heart thundered like a herd of vizzals and never seemed to slow, even when she stopped for a rest. However hard she tried, she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. There was no running water to be found. She tried chewing snow but that only made her teeth ache and did little to quench her thirst. Each time she reached the top of a ridge, the peak of the Warrior frowned back at her, seemingly as far away as ever. Her stomach growled. It had been two days since she hit the snowline and food was as scarce as running water. Earlier that day she had glimpsed a snow hare, hopping across the surface and had flung her spear at it but thanks to her numb fingers, or perhaps her lack of experience with the weapon, the spear had flown harmlessly over the creature. The hare had disappeared and Zastra wasted precious energy ploughing through the soft snow to retrieve her spear. Not a mistake she would repeat.

  In front of her, a cliff of ice rose out of the crumbly snow, glittering in the morning sunlight. There was no way round it unless she retraced her steps to try and find an easier route further round the mountain. Zastra dismissed that idea. If she didn’t return before the pass through the Guardians was cut off for the winter, Kylen and her small band of Sendorans would be stranded, easy prey for Ixendred’s vastly superior army. There was no time for detours. The ice cliff was cracked in places and pockmarked with natural handholds but Zastra didn’t dare remove her mittens. Frostbite was a constant risk. The blade of her spear had jagged edges. Gripping it where the blade joined the shaft, she dug the spear into a crack in the ice. It held, and she began to ascend carefully, using the spear to lever herself up, knowing there was nobody to save her if she fell. Without stopping or looking down, she forced herself to keep moving even as her forearms and biceps began to lock up with the effort. A quarter of the way up the ice fall, a new problem arose. The glare of the sun bouncing off the ice was slowly blinding her, dancing particles of light blurring her vision. Blinking hard did nothing to remove the particles. Eyes closed, she reached upwards with her mittened hand, found a crack and jabbed in her spear into it. Icy air burned her fingers as the serrated blade ripped open her mitten. Clinging to the cliff, Zastra pressed her eyelids together and tried to think. If she continued blindly, she was likely to seriously injure herself, but opening her eyes meant losing what little sight she had left. Risking a quick glance at her surroundings she noticed a shadow cutting across the cliff to her right. Perhaps there the glare wouldn’t be so bad. She crabbed sideways across ice that became increasingly slick. With the sun now directly overhead, the surface was melting. The line of shade was almost within reach, but between her and it was a column of completely smooth ice with no way to climb across safely. She could no longer feel the cold seeping into her damaged mitten. A bad sign. A narrow shelf of rock protruded from the ice below her position, just within the area of shadow. It was a jump she’d be confident of making if she had been starting from solid ground, but the slippery ice gave her very little to push away from. Added to that, the ledge was dusted in ice crystals and would make a treacherous landing site. She flexed her left hand, trying to force blood back into her fingers and weighed up her options, realising quickly that she didn’t have any. She transferred all her weight onto her toes, levered her spear out of the ice cliff, and jumped. Her feet missed the ledge and she flung out her arms in desperation. The tips of her mittened fingers curled round a lip of rock and she clung on grimly as her chin smashed against the ledge and she tasted the warm tang of blood. The spear pinged out of her despairing grip and slid towards the edge of the shelf where it juddered to a stop, the jagged blade hung over the drop. If it fell, she was done for. Without the spear it would be impossible to climb the rest of the cliff.

  Zastra forced herself to take her time. Her legs pumped air as she heaved herself up and onto the ledge, curving her chest away from the spear so as not to dislodge it. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, then reached out slowly to grasp the spear and clutch it to her chest. Her heart refused to stop racing as she lay on her back for a few moments, sucking in air, eyes closed as she flexed the fingers of her left hand to try and regain feeling. That proved unsuccessful, so she levered off a boot, removed one of her two layers of socks and used it to plug the hole in her mitten, blowing onto her fingers until they began to tingle. Her vision cleared now she was in the shade. It was time to start climbing again.

  It took her the rest of the day to reach the top. There was a mere fingernail of red across the eastern sky as Zastra crested the ice cliff. Her arms and legs were shaking from the effort and she was down to the last of her strength. The ground flattened out briefly before rising steeply again. The flat part was solid ice, smooth and treacherous. The wind whistled around the mountain and the temperature had dropped significantly. Zastra skated forward gingerly, using her spear like a crutch its point digging into the frozen ground. At one point she slipped, jarring her knee against the hard surface, and emitted a loud curse. There was nobody to hear. At least her knee still had feeling, unlike her fingers and toes, which had gone numb some while ago. Zastra knew she must find shelter quickly. She slid across the smooth ice and onto a rising slope of windswept rock, hoping to find a cave, or at least a windbreak to cower behind. But the light was fading and her body was shutting down. The strengthening wind crept inside her furs, chilling her to the bone. If she didn’t find shelter soon, she would never survive the night.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Flakes of snow drifted down through the iron grate and lande
d on Brutila’s frozen cheeks, yet she continued to stare up at the small circle of fading light high above her. Knowing that she was only alive thanks to the food and water brought by Anara was worse than a stab to her gut. The Kyrgs would have left her to starve, but her ex-prisoner visited daily bringing armfuls of furs that had proven only marginally effective in protecting Brutila from the freezing air that sank into the well. The thing that really stung, the thing that for days she refused to acknowledge, was that she had begun to crave Anara’s company. The well was so narrow that when she sat with her back against the curving wall her feet touched the opposite side, and its walls were featureless and dreary. On her first day of imprisonment, she had reached out with her mind, hoping to force an unwary Kyrginite to her will, but a previous addiction to cintara bark had left her powers diminished. Her range was short and the Kyrgs kept their distance. Over recent days, she had even tried to connect with nearby animals to relieve the tedium. She was one of those mindweavers who could sense the thoughts of dumb creatures as well as humans. She had followed a hungry ermine, hunting for roots and then, further away, her mind had touched briefly with a white scrittal as it dug a nest. She quickly pulled her consciousness away. Scrittals were greedy, vicious creatures and she wanted none of them.

  Her eager ears picked out a soft tread crunching on the snow. The grate moved to one side and Anara’s head appeared, outlined against the pure white sky. Brutila buried herself within her mound of blankets and furs, determined not to give into this weakness. She would send Anara away.

  ‘I’ve brought you a brazier,’ Anara said.

  Brutila’s resolution died in an instant, the idea of feeling true warmth too much of a temptation. Something to stop the nightmares that always came with the cold. She shoved aside her cocoon as Anara lowered her offering into the well. The brazier was filled with buckthorn pellets and atop them lay a quarter of a firering.

  ‘Alone today, Anara?’ she asked roughly, sensing no other minds nearby. Although Findar and Kastara could always be screening. They were talented for ones so young.

  ‘Not everyone values your company as I do.’

  ‘Don’t make fun of me,’ Brutila growled, scraping the fragment of firering against the edge of the brazier to spark the pellets into life.

  ‘I’m sorry. That was not my intention. I will go, if you wish.’

  ‘No!’ The protest shot out of her mouth before Brutila could stop it. Curse this foolishness. She composed herself.

  ‘Why don’t you come down and join me?’ She grinned in the darkness, a smile that Anara returned.

  ‘Give me credit for some intelligence, Brutila.’

  ‘I could use mindweaving to force you. I doubt you are strong enough to resist.’

  Brutila was bluffing. Anara could protect her mind well enough, although in other respects she was a low level mindweaving talent. She couldn’t read the thoughts of others, or control them, although it was said she had unusually strong empathy – a pointless skill as far as Brutila was concerned. Brutila had tried to break down Anara’s mental barriers many times over the years, seeking to understand the game Anara was playing but had always failed.

  ‘The Krygs have instructions to disregard any orders I might give to release you,’ said Anara. ‘Besides, you’ve had plenty of chances to kill me.’

  ‘Thorlberd did not permit it. But now he is dead.’

  ‘Then what’s stopping you?’

  Brutila held her palms close to the glowing brazier. ‘Not worth the effort,’ she muttered.

  Anara lowered a bottle of spiced wine and a pewter tankard down into the well. Brutila pulled the cork with her teeth and tipped half the bottle into the mug.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked. ‘What do you hope to gain? Do not expect gratitude from me.’

  ‘I don’t want thanks. In my life, I have felt deeply the kindness of others and wish only to return some of it. Although I admit there’s a selfishness in what I do. One feels a special type of joy in helping others.’

  ‘Joy?’ Brutila snorted. ‘How can you talk such nonsense?’

  ‘How came you to be this person, Brutila?’

  ‘Ah! So that’s what this is about? Your mindweaving powers are pathetically weak and so you try to discover my secrets with this pretended kindness.’

  ‘Why do you believe intentions must always be evil?’

  Brutila sipped her wine, savouring the heat of the spices against her tongue.

  ‘What’s going on with the Kyrginites?’ she asked. ‘Your precious Zastra certainly stirred things up. I can’t imagine the warriors are pleased with Jelgar.’ The idea of Kyrginites fighting among themselves pleased her greatly.

  ‘Zastra has taken the journey to the Warrior Mountain.’ She detected the concern in Anara’s voice and latched onto it eagerly.

  ‘This time her luck will surely run out. Hundreds of Kyrgs lie dead on the Warrior’s slopes. Most likely Zastra will join them.’

  ‘My daughter is up there now, cold and alone. Tell me you don’t feel any sympathy.’

  Something stifled Brutila’s intended retort. She knew what it was to be trapped on a snow-capped mountaintop. The old memory clawed at her. Scrittals, chattering and hungry, eager for their prey to die, and that prey was Brutila. She shuddered.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Anara said, rising.

  ‘Wait!’ Brutila pleaded, hoping talking might keep the memory at bay. ‘That… thing that happened when we were children.’

  Anara sat down again with a sigh.

  ‘I know you blamed Leodra but he never meant to leave you up on that mountain. Your father forced him to abandon you. He was a cruel man. I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for you to be his child.’

  The compassion in Anara’s voice was more difficult to bear than the cold. Brutila shuffled closer to the brazier.

  ‘He paid for it,’ she snarled.

  ‘But it didn’t take away the pain, did it? It never gave you back the childhood he stole from you. Small wonder you ended up hating everyone, with such an example.’

  ‘No one ever proved me wrong,’ Brutila muttered. ‘Now leave me be.’

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Zastra had discovered the cave by pure luck, falling through a crack in the rock as night descended. Pain arced from her knee and she wondered how much damage she had done to it when she had slipped on the ice. The wound in her thigh from her Aliterran expedition ached and her arms were already stiffening up from the effort of climbing the ice cliff, but she could not afford to rest. She reached out to explore her surroundings and touched something soft. Tugging off her mittens, she ran her fingers along the wall of the crevice. It was lined with dry moss. She tore strips of it from the wall and made a pile. Fumbling inside her coat, she retrieved her small fragment of firering. Never had it been more precious. Struggling with her numb fingers, it took several attempts to strike it against the tip of her spear. Sparks kindled the mound of dry moss and she soon had a small fire and enough light to see.

  Scattered along the crevice were bones and feathers. Some of the bones were grey with age, but others were caked in blood and seemed quite fresh. The cave had been used recently by an animal of some kind. Amongst a pile of loose rocks she found one that was flat, with a shallow depression in one side. She took it and ventured back out into the strengthening gale. Most of the ground had been swept bare by the wind, but drifts of snow had gathered in cracks and crevices, glowing faintly in the near dark. Zastra scooped a few handfuls into her rudimentary bowl and placed it next to her fire, which she stoked with more armfuls of moss. As soon as the snow had melted into water, she drank greedily. It was ice cold, but no less welcome for that. She melted more snow, this time waiting for the water to turn warm before she drank. Outside, the wind whistled and moaned. Thank the stars she had found her shelter when she did. Her thirst quenched, her stomach growled as a reminder that she had not eaten in days. She chewed on the fresh bones, sucking out wh
at little marrow remained, but that did nothing to dampen her hunger. Scooping some burning moss onto her flat stone, she used it as a torch to explore the rest of her new domain. There was not much to see. A hole barely wide enough to accommodate her shoulders led into a short tunnel at right angles to the crevice. When she reached the end, she almost dropped her torch in shock. A well-preserved skeleton stared back at her, the skull missing a few teeth, giving her grisly companion a rakish grin. Scraps of fur stuck to the ribcage, the remnants of a coat that had been scavenged by birds or animals for nesting material. Judging by its flattened facial bones, the skeleton was Kyrginite. A leather pouch hung round its neck. Zastra reached for it. Inside was a silver needle, engraved with fine markings. An offering to the Warrior that had never been made. This poor soul had failed in his or her quest. Feeling a strange affinity for her new companion, Zastra stripped the skeleton of what remained of the fur coat and buried it under lose rocks. Not knowing what ceremonies Kyrgs performed for their dead, she spoke the ritual words of her own people. Returning to her fire she found it had almost burned down and so she searched along the rocky crevice for more moss, gathering all she could find. Some was still green but she tore it off anyway. It could do for a mattress and by morning might be dry enough to burn. Beneath the fresh moss was a seething mass of fat grubs, covered in soft bristles. She was too hungry to be fussy. For want of a bag, she took off her good mitten and scooped the grubs into it. She returned to her guttering fire, piled on the remaining dry moss and placed her flat rock on top of it. When the rock was hot enough to sizzle when she spat on it, she threw on some of the grubs. The hairy skin burst away, leaving a lump of flesh that shrank and browned in the heat. She speared one using the needle she had taken from the skeleton. The meat was bitter and had the consistency of lastic, but she swallowed down every morsel. Too late, she recalled Ithgol’s advice on tasting new foods.