Rastran smirked.
‘Tut, tut, Ixy.’
Ixendred forced himself to take a moment before replying and kept his voice neutral.
‘Word spread quickly amongst the villages and some of the young people escaped. I have put in place a secondary plan to soak up the dregs. I guarantee we will get all the recruits we need.’
Rastran heaved himself nonchalantly onto the edge of Thorlberd’s table and crossed one leg over the other.
‘I don’t suppose you found a girl among them? About eighteen, she’d be. Chestnut hair. Vicious as a migaradon that hasn’t been fed.’
‘Silence boy!’ Thorlberd barked. ‘And stand up straight in my presence, instead of lounging about like a Far Islander.’
Rastran leapt off the table as if he’d been bitten. Ixendred’s curiosity was piqued.
‘There were many girls,’ he remarked. ‘If you tell me what is so interesting about this particular one, I might be able to find out more.’
‘It is of no matter.’ Thorlberd’s abrupt response put an end to that particular line of conversation. Ixendred tucked away the information in a corner of his brain. Interesting. A girl, someone Thorlberd did not want to discuss. Could it be that Leodra’s daughter, Zastra, had not been killed after all? There had been rumours at the time, but anyone gossiping about such things had tended to disappear. She would be about eighteen by now. Thorlberd broke into his thoughts.
‘When will you be ready to move on Sendor?’
Ixendred noted the sudden change of subject, but knew better than to show it.
‘Just give the word, Grand Marl. The supply lines are already in place. The Kyrgs are ready for some real fighting. We will make a feint from the west with a small Golmeiran force, while the Kyrgs attack in strength from the north.’
‘Good. Take Rastran with you. It’s time my son learned something of the art of war, rather than idling about here.’
Ixendred indicated his assent with a tiny inclination of his chin. Rastran’s eyes shone.
‘At last you’ve listened to my requests to lead our army in battle. I shall enjoy putting down some Sendoran animals.’
‘Ixendred will be in charge. You are there only to watch and learn. Do not let your enthusiasm get the better of you. Remember, we have need for Sendoran prisoners. Alive, not dead.’
‘Yes, Father.’ Rastran responded with a meekness that Ixendred felt pretty sure was faked. ‘The Murthen Island project. I hear we are making great progress.’
Ixendred pricked up his ears again. He considered himself well informed, yet he had nothing of this Murthen Island. More secrets. He felt Thorlberd’s attention on him, and had a sudden concern that the Grand Marl might be reading his mind. I am loyal, I swear! Thorlberd gave him a level stare.
‘We have various schemes in motion, designed to ensure the continued glory of Golmeira. I prefer to keep them known only to a few. I’m sure you understand, Ixendred.’
‘As you command, my Lord.’
‘Yes, Ixy. Since you aren’t a mindweaver, you can’t be trusted,’ Rastran crowed. A tempting idea began to form in Ixendred’s mind, but he decided that strangling the Grand Marl’s heir was probably not the wisest move if he wished to remain Master at Arms.
‘Quiet, boy!’ thundered Thorlberd. ‘You will learn discretion if I have to beat it into you. And don’t think I won’t. Go and get ready. Do as Ixendred tells you, or you’ll answer to me.’
There was a moment of awkward silence before Rastran sidled out. Ixendred followed, trying not to let his mind show how very much he hated the idea of babysitting the Grand Marl’s eldest son. He had work to do, information to gather. If Leodra’s daughter was indeed alive and living in the Border Mountains, Ixendred would be the one to find her. Thorlberd was sure to be grateful. He decided to send extra mindweavers to scan every conscript. If Zastra was among them, the mindweavers would find her out.
Chapter Ten
Frecha sent word that all their wool had been woven into cloth and was ready to take to Kirkholme. Not a day too soon. The axe had finally broken and they would soon need to begin laying down wood stores for the winter, so that the logs would have enough time to dry out before the cold weather arrived. They also needed a new firering. The one Zastra had been given, many years ago by a man called Hedrik, had been whittled away to just a few small fragments. Most important of all, Etta needed her medicine. However, there was a problem. In previous years, Dalbric and Etta had taken their wares down to Kirkholme using Haq’s donkey and cart, but Raurak and the donkey had never returned. It was suspected that Raurak, like Gonjik, had been captured by Kyrgs and forced into service in the Golmeiran army. Any hopes of recovering the donkey and cart had long since faded.
‘Dalbric and I will have to carry everything down to Kirkholme on foot,’ Zastra said.
‘It’s too dangerous,’ protested Etta. ‘What if you are recognised? That’s why we never let you go before. What if the Kyrgs are still around? I don’t think either of you should go.’
Dalbric gave her a hard stare.
‘I’m going, Ma, and there’s nothing you can say to stop me.’
He rooted around inside the large store cupboard.
‘Anyone seen my large pack?’
Zastra pulled two backpacks from behind a stack of jula oil barrels and handed one to Dalbric.
‘I’m coming with you. There’s no way you can carry everything yourself. We’ll just have to be careful. If we spot any soldiers, we’ll hide until they’ve gone.’
Etta reached out towards Dalbric, but he pulled away. Ever since Lindarn’s visit he had been distant, particularly to his mother. Etta picked up one of the barrels of jula oil and handed it to her son. The crop had been good that spring. Dalbric had spent many evenings pressing out the oil, and they had two spare barrels to sell along with their cloth.
‘Promise me you will come back safe.’
Dalbric shoved the barrel into the bottom of his pack.
‘I promise, Ma,’ he mumbled eventually. Fin ran into the kitchen and flung himself at Zastra’s legs.
‘Don’t go,’ he begged. ‘Bad soldiers catch you.’
Zastra bent down and levered him up into her arms, pretending to groan with the effort.
‘You’re getting too big to lift, little man.’
Her brother buried his face in her neck. Zastra kissed the top of his head. His hair felt soft against her cheek. She steeled herself and prised him away.
‘It’s good you’re so big, because I need you to do something very important. I need you to take care of Etta while we’re gone.’
Her brother looked at her with a serious expression. Zastra rummaged around in the pocket of her trousers and pulled out the last two pieces of her broken firering. The ends of the two fragments fit snugly together. She gave the smaller piece to Findar.
‘See how they link together? If you touch this whenever you are missing me, I’ll do the same. It will be like we are connected.’
Fin eyed the small tube of metal in his palm, his forehead creased into a frown. Zastra and Dalbric packed their bags quickly, before Fin could make any other protest and before Etta could think up a way to stop them.
‘Fin, you be sure to do exactly as Etta tells you,’ were Zastra’s parting words. Her heart almost broke at the sight of her brother’s woebegone face staring at her from the doorway. They headed down the mountain, stopping at Frecha’s only long enough to pick up the wool. The bundles of cloth were large and when added to the heavy oil barrels, there was no space left for food or water.
‘We’ll just have to get what we need from the forest,’ Dalbric remarked bluntly. They bid Frecha and Hanra farewell and set off.
It was a four day journey, much of it beating against the strong winds of the high mountain passes. Zastra formed a healthy respect for Haq’s donkey as the straps from her heavy pack dug into her shoulders and her thighs trembled under the weight. They trudged on, mostly in silence, conserving al
l their energy for carrying their burdens. When they could walk no more, they made camp by the nearest stream or spring. Too tired to hunt, they made do with small meals of tree fungus or nuts and berries plucked as they travelled, before falling asleep by a small fire that they sunk into a pit to screen it from prying eyes.
On the evening of the third day, disaster struck. They had to ford a large stream, swollen by recent rainfall. The water flowed deep and strong and it took the last of Zastra’s flagging energy to wade through water that rose as high as her waist. She made it to the far side of the stream but, as she scrambled towards safety, she slipped on the wet rocks and fell backwards, her backpack crashing down hard against a boulder. Dalbric helped her to the top of the bank, where a check of her backpack revealed that the barrel of jula oil had sprung a leak. The oil was gone. Worse, it had drenched one of the precious bundles of wool, and it could not be salvaged. Zastra sank to the ground in wordless grief. Dalbric said nothing, but Zastra could see that he was upset. They made camp by the side of the cruel stream, but Zastra, exhausted as she was, could not sleep and lay awake for most of the night, silently berating herself for her clumsiness.
At noon the next day they reached the long descent into the valley of the Thrashing River, at the head of which lay Kirkholme. Zastra shifted her load slightly to ease her aching shoulders.
‘If we hurry, we may be able to do our business today. We don’t want have to stay overnight.’
They hastened down the track together and entered the outpost late in the afternoon. Zastra pulled a shapeless cap from her pocket and pulled it low over her forehead so that it shaded her eyes. It was unlikely that anyone in these parts would recognise her as Leodra’s daughter, but there was no point in taking chances. Dalbric also tried to look inconspicuous, raising the hood of his woollen cape, in case any Kyrgs were about, looking for more young people to conscript.
Kirkholme was a sizeable village, almost large enough to be called a town. The main streets were paved and filled with people, but Zastra saw no sign of Golmeiran uniforms or black robed mindweavers. The noise and bustle seemed strange after the peace and quiet of the mountains. Dalbric led her via narrow backstreets to a store belonging to Miray, the cloth merchant who always bought their wool. The silver-haired woman greeted them warmly. Running an expert hand over one of the bales, she offered two tocrins a bundle.
‘But this is the best quality goats’ wool,’ Dalbric protested.
‘I’m sorry, Dalbric. I don’t question the quality. That’s why I’ve offered what I have. Coarser wool raises only one tocrin a bale these days. Taxes are so high we’ve had to lower our costs and raise prices just to scratch a living. You can ask anyone else, they’ll tell you the same.’
‘Last year it was three, and the wool wasn’t as good.’
‘Look, I’ll give you an extra quarter tocrin a roll, seeing as it’s such lovely wool. But only because it’s you,’ Miray offered.
‘So how much is that?’
‘Let’s see. Seven bales, that’s thirteen and a quarter tocrins total.’
‘Fifteen and three-quarters,’ insisted Zastra darkly.
‘Um, yes, that’s right.’ The merchant gave Zastra a sharp glance. ‘It’s a good thing they are teaching you counting now, up in the mountains.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ returned Zastra. She wasn’t about to tell Miray where she had really learned arithmetic. At the chandler’s they sold their single remaining barrel of jula oil for three tocrins. Then to the blacksmith’s where, after a great deal of haggling, they purchased a second-hand firering and a new axe. Once they had set aside Frecha’s share of the wool money they were left with two tocrins. As they were looking for the herbalist’s store, Zastra caught sight of a flash of flaxen hair at the far end of the street. She grabbed Dalbric and pulled him into an alley and behind a stack of crates.
‘Ouch!’ Dalbric yelped. Zastra realised she was gripping him so tightly that her fingers were white. She released him and put a finger to her lips. Moments later, four Kyrgs marched across the end of the alley. Zastra and Dalbric cowered behind the crates until they had passed.
‘That was close,’ Dalbric whispered. ‘If you hadn’t seen them…’
‘Come on.’ Zastra pulled him to his feet. ‘The sooner we’re done here, the better.’
They made it to the herbalist just as he was closing for the day. He had only one other customer, a thickset man in a green jacket who couldn’t decide whether to take a large or small bottle of a purple medicine.
‘Yaya-root is it?’ the herbalist said in response to Dalbric’s enquiry. ‘Well, it’s very hard to get hold of these days. There’s a lot of demand.’
‘Do you have any?’ Dalbric looked in no mood for small talk.
‘I’ve only three bundles left. Very precious. Three tocrins per bundle.’ He opened a tin and placed a bundle of the tiny bulbs on the counter.
‘Three tocrins for that?’
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 you 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 large building, painted yellow. ‘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.
‘I don’t see that we have a choice. If there’s any chance to get Etta this medicine, we must give
it a try.’
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 changed into canvas tents and rickety sheds of rotting wood. Here and there animal skins were stretched out to dry alongside patched-up clothing on lines of fraying rope. Zastra thought she recognised scrittal skulls amongst the piles 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 these puddles, but even so their boots got sucked into the sticky morass. Zastra shuddered as she felt cold water seep through 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 dark, dank and dismal. There were only three people inside. A 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 nodded and 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.
Murthen Island: Book Two: Tales of Golmeira Page 5