‘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 down 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 is it you need?’
Zastra glanced at Dalbric, who nodded at her encouragingly.
‘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. She wanted 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 that of the herbalist. Some of the 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 out and swept his feet out 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 and damper 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!’ Zastra 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 now 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 Lord 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 be
fore 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 that had been 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. ‘Golmeirans usually kill Sendorans. 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.’
‘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 plan 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 upper arm. 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.’
Something in his manner convinced Kylen he was speaking the truth. Besides, he was right. 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 need 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, 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.
‘Nice of Grand Marl Thorlberd to send us a personal escort,’ said the wiry youth. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Shut up, flekk,’ barked one of soldiers, a dark-skinned Southland woman.
‘Make me,’ retorted the youth. The woman stood up, raised a baton and clonked the youth on his head. He collapsed forward onto the wooden slats that formed the base of the wagon.
‘Request granted. The rest of you keep quiet, unless you want the same as this loudmouth.’
They continued their journey in uneasy silence. Zastra glanced out of the back of the wagon. By the direction of the long evening shadows, she could tell that they were heading south. The soldiers sat taut and alert, swords unsheathed. One rested a loaded crossbow across her knee, her forefinger tapping the trigger. Zastra’s stomach lurched. There was no possibility of escape. She silently cursed the man in the green jacket and Pugara for their treachery. Beside her, the young girl started to shiver.
‘It’ll be all right.’ Zastra tried to sound reassuring. The girl kept her forehead pressed against her knees.
‘I’m scared.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Yashni.’
‘Mine’s Layna. Try not to be afraid. They’ve paid out good money to have us on this wagon, so they must want us alive and well. Let’s wait and see before we get too worried.’
‘No talking!’ The curt order from Southlander ended their conversation and the wagon continued its slow journey. The twin moons were high in the sky before the wagon eventually pulled off the dirt track and stopped on a shelf of rock that overhung a fast flowing river. The prisoners were ushered out into the night. Zastra felt cold spray against her face. Beyond the rock shelf, a waterfall thundered into boiling rapids, the white foam reflecting the light of a pair of swaying lamps. The shadow of a barge loomed dark against the swirling water. Zastra and the others were marched on board. Her bonds and that of the Kyrg were cut before they were forced down a narrow wooden ladder into the depths of the hull.
‘Where are you taking us?’ Zastra received only a sharp shove in response to her question. The ladder was hauled up behind them and a square hatch was locked in place. They were left in utter darkness. Zastra felt a choking sensation as the dark closed around her. Ever since the night she had been forced to flee the horrors of Golmer Castle via a dark underground tunnel, she had hated enclosed spaces. A strangled squeak at her shoulder told her that Yashni was similarly afraid. She reached out a hand and brushed against trembling flesh.
‘Here, hold my hand.’
‘Layna?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
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Zastra felt a cold hand slip inside hers. Somehow, Yashni’s need for reassurance gave her the courage she needed not to scream. She bit down on the bile that was rising in her throat and reached out into the darkness, shuffling forward until she felt the damp wood of the hull. A cold sweat broke across her forehead and she eased herself down, just before her legs gave way. She pulled Yashni down to the floor with her, comforted slightly by the solidity of the rough wood against her back. Breathe. One, two, three, breathe. The barge began to move, lurching with the river swell. Bodies stumbled and slid across the hold, followed by a shower of curses and muttered apologies as limbs crashed against each other in the dark, until everyone found a space to sit down.
‘Where are we going?’ Yashni sobbed. No one offered an answer. Zastra put her arm around the girl and pulled her close. One, two, three, breathe.
The barge settled into a monotonous motion. Long passages of time were broken occasionally by a succession of bumps and grinding noises.
‘A lock,’ someone muttered at the first of these events. ‘They’re taking us down to the coast.’
The air inside the barge began to thicken with the stink of sweat and damp wood. Zastra felt a familiar terror squeezing the air from her lungs.
‘I can’t breathe,’ sobbed Yashni, echoing Zastra’s internal panic. ‘They mean to choke us to death.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Zastra forced out the words. ‘They don’t mean to let us die or they wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. You’ll see.’
She began to stroke Yashni’s hair, as her own mother had once done for her, many years ago.
‘Do you have some special knowledge, mountain girl?’
She recognised the voice of the cocky boy who had been knocked senseless by the Southlander.
Murthen Island: Book Two: Tales of Golmeira Page 6