Murthen Island
Book Two: Tales of Golmeira
Marianne Ratcliffe
Published by Marianne Ratcliffe
Macclesfield, UK
Murthen Island copyright © 2015 by Marianne Ratcliffe
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United Kingdom
First Printing, 2015
ISBN 9780993400117
Published by Marianne Ratcliffe
www.marianneratcliffe.com
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Richard and Sylvia Ratcliffe, for their continuous support and encouragement
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Coming Soon
Acknowledgements
Also by Marianne Ratcliffe
Chapter One
Kylen snapped her telescope shut in satisfaction and retreated into the shadow cast by a sun-baked boulder.
‘At last,’ she said in a low voice. ‘The shipment of weapons. Just like that drunken Golmeiran captain told us. Time we sent a message to Grand Marl Thorlberd.’
‘We’ve been sending such messages for the last year, my Lady. I’m not sure anyone is listening.’ Her huge Sendoran companion was almost as large as the rock behind which they were hidden.
‘Then we need to do more. I’ll make him wish he had never even thought of invading Sendor.’
‘I just… I have a bad feeling about today.’
Kylen sighed wearily.
‘Again, Hylaz?’
‘We’ve stretched our luck as it is. We can’t keep going up against such numbers and surviving.’
‘Survival is overrated. I’d rather die by a Golmeiran sword than live as their slave. My father would agree, if he were alive.’
‘Lord Mendoraz died defending the people of Golgannan against the entire Golmeiran army and their monstrous migaradons. He wouldn’t venture his life over a few wagons of supplies. I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.’
‘We are down to our last few crossbow bolts and your sword has been patched more times than a beggar’s blanket. If those wagons are carrying weapons, it will certainly be worth it.’
The big man squinted through a telescope that appeared as small as a twig in his giant hands. ‘Must be a hundred of them, and we are only twenty.’
Kylen slapped his broad back.
‘It wouldn’t be fun if it was too easy, now would it?’
‘I wouldn’t mind easy, just for once,’ muttered her companion. ‘Instead of odds of five to one.’
‘Remember every one of our people is worth ten soft-bellied Golmeirans. I make that two to one in our favour.’
‘Well, when you put it like that…’
Kylen stood up and made a signal with her right hand. She received small movements of acknowledgement from positions triangulated above the narrow defile. Her team was ready.
Below them, soldiers wearing black uniforms with a green gecko emblazoned on their chests rounded a bend and marched slowly up the narrow track towards them. Kylen allowed the leading line of soldiers to pass by, waiting until the first of the wagons creaked into position directly beneath her. She tapped Hylaz on the shoulder. He cupped his hands around his mouth and gave out the pre-arranged signal, mimicking the bellow of a male fellgryff. Kylen lifted her elmwood Golmeiran crossbow, sighted at the driver of the wagon and fired. The driver sagged forward in his seat. Hylaz spat at the ground.
‘Say what you like about Golmeirans, they make a good crossbow.’
Thank you, Zastra. Her bow had been a parting gift from the only Golmeiran that Kylen didn’t despise. Her shot was echoed by a volley of sharp twangs as the rest of her team fired their own bolts. Cries of alarm came up from the track below and the figures in black scattered. Kylen had chosen the site of the ambush well. The track had been carved through the mountainside and the Golmeiran soldiers found themselves hemmed in by sheer rock. There was nowhere to hide as Kylen and her fellow Sendorans released their second and third bolts. Once her crossbow was empty, Kylen threw it aside. Using Golmeiran tactics had given them the advantage but now it was time to wage battle the Sendoran way. Show the enemy your face. Hylaz brought forward Breeze, her fellgryff. She met the creature’s intelligent eyes and he dipped his head, bucking as she leapt on his back. He was always temperamental, but today the scent of the Golmeirans added to his excitement and she had to grip hard with her legs to cling on. When Breeze settled under her, she eased him towards the edge of the ledge and brandished a sword above her head, her outline framed against the clear blue sky. A Golmeiran bolt whipped past her ear, so close she felt its breath on her cheek. Grinning in wild abandon, she spurred Breeze forward. Sure footed, he sprang from rock to rock, down into the defile and landed on the track in front of the invaders. For a moment she was alone amongst the enemy, before her fellow rebels leapt down onto the track to join her as she had known they would. They were still outnumbered by far, but that was unimportant.
‘For Sendor!’ she cried. If this was to be her last day, she would not die alone.
Chapter Two
Zastra clenched her toes to grip the rough trunk of the jula tree as it swayed alarmingly beneath her bare feet. The slender tree grew straight out from the steep mountainside, bowing under her weight as she inched towards its crown to reach the jula berries that would be her reward for risking her neck. She listened attentively for any tell-tale creaks that would give her warning of a flaw in the wood. The tree was old. If the trunk snapped she would be sent flying down the steep incline onto the unforgiving rocks below.
‘It’s too dangerous,’ Dalbric cried as she leaned out to tug at a bunch of the orange fruit. Below her, his untidy mop of straw-coloured hair shook in disapproval.
She laughed, increasingly confident as she rode each dip and roll of the tree. ‘You
should try it. There’s a great view from up here. I can even see our fields.’
The Border Mountains stretched away in all directions, swathed in dense forest, summits of barren rock poking up above the treeline like bare heads above a rich green cloak. To the far north the snow-capped tips of the Northern Wastes were, as usual, obscured by clouds. Much closer, on the neighbouring ridge, she could just make out the tiny patch of cleared land that marked out their homestead.
‘Stop showing off and hurry up.’
‘It’s not my fault you’re scared of heights.’
She flung a bunch of thick-rinded jula berries at him. He side-stepped smartly and caught the bunch one-handed.
‘Hey! Careful. You’ll bruise them.’
Ignoring his pleas, she rained more fruit down on him. A strange moaning noise made them both pause. Dalbric looked anxiously to the north.
‘A wind-gust. You’d better come down.’
Zastra glanced across the slope. A wave of vigorous movement swept across the treetops and accelerated towards her. Yet there were more jula berries to be had, the best too, right at the tips of the branches. She stretched out and tore off the last few remaining bunches of fruit, grabbing hold of a sturdy limb just as the wind-gust slammed into the tree, forcing it to bend so much that its crown pressed against the mountainside. Judging the moment carefully, Zastra sprang to the ground a mere instant before the tree trunk whipped back, released as the wind-gust passed. She placed the fruit into Dalbric’s hand with a triumphant flourish.
‘One day your luck will run out and you’ll be catapulted halfway to the moons,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t mind, only Ma will blame me and I’ll be on double chores for a week.’
‘A week, eh? As long as that? Then I’d best be more careful.’
‘We’d better head back. If we’re late, it’ll only give Ma time to think up more jobs.’
The sun was low in the sky and the pale outline of Horval, the larger of the twin moons, was already ascending.
‘Fine.’ Zastra wriggled into her backpack. She began to slide down the steep slope. ‘Last one back cooks supper.’
‘Hey!’ Dalbric snatched up his own bag and scrambled after her. ‘Not fair.’
‘Come on, slowcoach.’ Zastra reached the treeline at the bottom of the slope and sprinted into the forest.
‘Save your breath for grovelling,’ Dalbric called back. He put on a spurt and overtook her, thundering between the trees to her left, breaking through the shafts of evening sunlight that slanted through the thick canopy overhead. Zastra increased her pace, ducking under familiar branches and hurdling fallen trunks. Side by side they raced until they burst into their home clearing, Dalbric ahead by a whisker. Their house sat above them, a log cabin at the top of a grassy incline. Seeing she was about to lose, Zastra dived for Dalbric’s legs, sweeping his ankles together so he sprawled to the ground, a mass of long limbs all tangled up in the straps of his dislodged backpack. Pressing her advantage, Zastra leapt on top of him and grabbed his arms so that he couldn’t move.
‘No fair!’ Dalbric grunted, his nose squished against the grass.
‘You’re getting slower,’ Zastra panted. ‘I reckon it’s the weight of all that hair. Still, I expect Hanra will like it. It does hide those big ears of yours.’
A door slammed. They both leapt up, like soldiers jumping to attention. A small woman with the same straw-coloured hair as Dalbric strode down the slope towards them, her lips pressed together in disapproval.
‘What are you playing at? Don’t you know there’s work to be done? I suppose you expect me to do it all myself?’
‘It’s my fault, Etta.’ Zastra hung her head sheepishly.
‘It usually is. I was beginning to think you’d got lost, the pair of you.’
‘Ma, we know every last tree and path in the forest within two days’ walk,’ protested Dalbric.
‘Then you’ve no excuse for being this late, have you?’ Etta pulled Dalbric’s bag from his grasp and examined the contents. ‘These had better not be damaged—’
Before she could finish her scolding, Etta broke into a hacking cough. Her body bent forward under the force of it. Dalbric reached towards her in concern, but Etta batted his hand away, straightening up and pumping her chest with her fist as if she could beat the cough out of her slight frame.
‘Layna!’ A boy, barely six years old, galloped down from the house, covered head to foot in mud.
‘Oh, Fin,’ Zastra sighed. ‘I only washed your clothes yesterday. What in the stars have you been doing?’
‘Making mud castles,’ the boy explained proudly. He tugged her sleeve. ‘Layna, come look.’
Layna. Even though she had been called that for many seasons, Zastra still found it odd that her little brother didn’t know she had once had a different name. It was more than five years since they had escaped from Golmer Castle after their treacherous uncle and his mindweavers had killed their parents. Five hard years, toiling to farm the stony ground of the Border Mountains, hoping their goatswool fetched a good price and every year risking her life for the jula berry harvest. No one would look at Zastra, clad in Dalbric’s ill-fitting cast offs, and think she had royal blood. Fin had been too young to remember anything of his life before the mountains. Too young to remember his twin sister, Kastara, left as a baby in the care of Bodel, the mother of one of Zastra’s childhood friends, deep within Golmeira. It was safer that he did not know these things. Even in the mountains, you never knew when a mindweaver might come by and dig out the secrets held inside your head. She allowed Fin to drag her up the slope.
‘Don’t be long,’ wheezed Etta, still recovering from her coughing fit. ‘Did you catch anything for supper?’
Zastra shook her head. ‘There wasn’t time for fishing.’
‘But time enough for fighting, I see. We’ll have to make do with halsa paste again then, won’t we? You can think about your priorities as you clean the wool tonight, young lady.’
Zastra sighed but did not protest. After a brief detour to admire five misshapen lumps of mud that Findar insisted were castles, she took him back to their tiny kitchen and began grinding up a few handfuls of misshapen halsa nuts, adding water and salt to make a pale green paste. She set it to heat on the stove until the mixture bubbled and then served it up. Dalbric pulled a face.
‘If I eat any more of this, I’ll turn into a halsa nut myself. Then you’ll be sorry.’
Findar pushed his plate away in alarm. ‘Don’t want to turn into a nut. Can I please have cabbage instead?’
Zastra prodded her fork in Dalbric’s direction.
‘Now look what you’ve done.’
‘Patience, little man.’ Dalbric nudged Findar’s plate back towards him. ‘The ground has only been thawed a little while. Even though we planted our first seeds straight away, it’ll be next Moonscross before anything starts to grow.’
‘Beans?’ Findar asked hopefully.
‘They’ll come after the cabbages. It’s the yellow-root I can’t wait for. If I close my eyes, I can almost taste it. Salt roasted and covered in cheese. Yummy.’
Fin clapped his hands in agreement.
‘Want yellow-root. Now!’ he exclaimed.
‘Dalbric, sometimes you can be a real idiot,’ Etta scolded.
‘Only sometimes?’ Zastra queried. ‘Come on, Fin. Eat up. You won’t turn into a halsa nut, I promise. And tomorrow, I’ll take out my bow and find us something nicer.’
Fin wavered, but when he saw there was no other food to be had, he ate up his green paste with no further protest and even licked out the bowl.
After supper, Etta set up her spindle. Clumps of wool were draped all the way along a length of rope that was slung across their cabin. Dalbric took one down, checked it was dry and picked up the combs with a smug grin. Zastra sighed and headed through the kitchen to the cold storeroom that lay at the back of the house. A second batch of goats’ wool had been soaking in barrels for the past two days and was n
ow ready for rinsing. Zastra rolled up her sleeves and stuck her hands into the foul smelling liquid, a special concoction of Etta’s. All the muck and dead insects from a year’s worth of mountain living floated in a scum at the top. Zastra scooped off the rancid layer, pulled out a ball of wool, wrung it out and rinsed it thoroughly in a second barrel of clean, cold water. Her hands were soon chafed and stinging, but she continued until all the wool was clean. They desperately needed the money. It was a long way from Golmer Castle and the luxuries of her childhood, but it was worth it to keep her brother safely out of their uncle’s reach.
Chapter Three
A high ranking general in the Golmeiran army brushed a speck of fluff from the shoulder of his immaculate uniform and knocked firmly on the panelled blackwood door. He waited for an acknowledgement before entering.
‘Ah, Ixendred. Come.’ Grand Marl Thorlberd’s deep tones reverberated against the bare stone walls of his office. Ixendred presented a neat bow, exactly to protocol. Thorlberd was standing beside a desk of highly polished elmwood. Before him was the trembling figure of Higina, Master at Arms and Ixendred’s commanding officer. Word had it that she had just returned from Sendor. Her uniform was faded and dirty. She was carrying a little extra weight these days, Ixendred noted, and dark circles of sweat spread out beneath her armpits.
Murthen Island: Book Two: Tales of Golmeira Page 1