Warrior of Golmeira

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘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 what 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.

  ‘I hope that whatever killed you, it wasn’t poison grubs,’ she addressed the pile of rocks at the end of the passage. It didn’t seem odd to her that she was talking to a dead skeleton. Perhaps it was due to being alone for so many days. ‘Hope you don’t mind my using your needle,’ she added. ‘Since Kyrgs believe in making use of everything, I’d like to think you’d approve.’

  She tore a couple of threads from a scrap of cloth she had retrieved from the skeleton and used the needle to mend her damaged glove.

  ‘What did happen to you?’ she asked. ‘If it wasn’t poison, then what? Frostbite? Hunger? Or did something kill you?’

  Her companion gave no answer. Typical Kyrg. Limited conversational skills. Zastra wrapped herself in every scrap of fur she could find, lay down on a bed of green moss and closed her eyes.

  She was visited by strange dreams. She was standing in front of the ice cliff. There was a shadowy form buried beneath the surface, something dark and terrifying. A small boy, fair hair bouncing, ran across the dazzling snow. It was Findar, aged about six. He began to pound at the wall with his fists, trying to free the figure inside.

  ‘No!’ Zastra cried, pulling him away. ‘It must stay buried.’ Findar looked at her, his eyes filled with tears, and then walked away.

  ‘Fin, wait! Don’t go,’ she pleaded, but he had already vanished. The snow around her split and a figure burst upwards, his face grey and veined like marble. It was her father. His body twitched and his severed head fell off and rolled across the snow towards her. His headless form drew a sword from a scabbard. Ghostly figures emerged from the ice cliff, eyes clouded like congealed soup. She recognised Justyn, Orika, Waylin and, most terrible of all, Dobery, his birthmark black against his pale, dead face. Her beheaded father joined them, defending the figure buried in the ice. Someone rushed past her, charging at the ghosts with a loud cry. It was Kylen. She swung her sword, hack
ing at arms and limbs, but the ghosts could not be killed. Kylen turned into Kastara, surrounded by a bubble of light. She walked towards the wall. The ice began to buckle and crack.

  ‘Stop!’ Zastra cried, terrified. ‘You mustn’t!’ Kastara turned to look at her accusingly, then faded away. The ground split open and a vast figure of burning red cinders rose up, steam hissing from the parting snow. It was the Mother of the ko-venteela, but it had Anara’s face. She raked her hands down the cliff, and the ice began to slough off in sheets. The figure was revealed, naked and trembling. Through shaking fingers, Zastra looked and saw herself.

  She woke with a jerk. Her moss fire had long since gone out. She forced herself to move, stamping on the ground and swinging her arms to force her sluggish blood to circulate. The strange dream stayed with her. Somehow, she felt it was important – that it had some meaning that she needed to work out. At least she was alive. The grubs she had eaten had not been poisonous after all. Her happiness at this fact was dampened when she poked her head out of the crack. A blizzard was raging and all she could see was white. The snow merged with the white sky and it was impossible to tell up from down. The wind screamed as it flung snow and ice into her face. She retreated swiftly back into the cave. No point trying to battle through that. She would have to wait until the storm subsided.

  Her mossy bed had dried out enough to burn and she made herself a breakfast of warm water. Suddenly she became aware of a new smell in the cave. She turned slowly. A snow wolf stood before her, watching her with pale eyes. A dead scrittal sagged between its teeth. It was between her and her spear, which she had foolishly left in the tunnel. The wolf gave a low growl. A warning. But Zastra knew if she was turned out into the blizzard she would die. This was her cave now and she must fight for it. She spread her arms wide, making herself as big as possible and uttered a guttural roar. If she was scared, perhaps the wolf would be too. Its tail dropped and it took a step back. Zastra charged with a desperate cry and the wolf dropped its prize and fled. Zastra grabbed her spear and followed the wolf into the blizzard, but it had vanished into the whiteness. She didn’t try and follow. The wolf’s prize was soon skinned and roasting over her little fire. She held the spear across her body, but the wolf did not return. Her bluff had worked.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Myka tried to appear unconcerned as the black raven dug into his thoughts. Their wagon had been forced to halt in front of the archway of red stone that formed the main entrance to Lyria Castle. Beside him, Nerika tutted impatiently. He was protecting her mind as well as his own and she was proving a difficult woman to help. Her bitterness and hatred had a nasty habit of bursting through his protective block. The last marl they had visited had been a mindweaver, and after one look at Nerika she had turned them away. Myka supposed he should be grateful they hadn’t been executed on the spot. Everywhere they travelled in Golmeira, they had seen bodies hanging from trees, or lying next to open graves. Killing had become a popular pastime under Rastran’s rule.

  The black raven’s scan was like a tap, dripping against his mental barrier. Not exactly dangerous, but intensely annoying. He was cold. It had been raining all day and his clothes were soaked through. Gildarn and Nerika had stayed warm and dry inside the covered wagon. They were posing as silk merchants, while he got landed with the role of servant, driver and general dogsbody. Typical of his luck. He’d asked to be sent to Southland, hoping for a chance to see his parents, but Polina worried that he was likely to be recognised in his homeland, so she’d packed him off with Nerika and Gildarn to try their luck in the Borders. Living with Nerika was about as much fun as bedding down with a scrittal. Even Gildarn seemed on edge. Not that Myka could blame him. Sharing the task of protecting Nerika’s mind was enough to make anyone nervous. He shivered as the black raven kept up her slow, steady probing. He wondered how Findar and Kastara were doing. However cold it was here, the Northern Wastes would be far worse.

  At last they were waved through, but only as far as a stout man with a broken nose and a middle-aged woman who sniffled constantly. They wore red tunics embroidered with a stylised jula tree, denoting them as Marl Orwin’s personal militia. The man prodded a couple of silk bales with a pudgy finger as the woman wiped her nose on her damp sleeve. The militia was recruited from those left after the best men and women had been forced to serve in the Golmeiran army. Hardly the cream of the crop. After a cursory examination, the militiaman let them through. As it happened, their silk bales were exactly what they were supposed to be. Marl Orwin’s wife was rumoured to enjoy fine things and it had seemed a good ploy to gain entrance. Once inside the castle, the plan was to see if Orwin was prepared to support the rebel cause but Myka was not optimistic. Aside from the marl who had thrown them out, another had agreed to help so readily that Myka suspected he had just told them what they wanted to hear. A third had demanded proof that the rebels could beat Rastran before making any commitment, and the last one they had visited had threatened to hang them from her castle gates. They had needed all Gildarn’s mindweaving skills to extricate themselves from that situation.

  A servant called Podrik led them to their quarters. His left eye was blind, covered in a milky film, and his left arm was shrivelled and hung uselessly by his side. Yet he lifted one of their largest silk bales under his good arm as easily as if it was filled with air. Once he had shown them their rooms, he invited Myka to visit the kitchens.

  ‘My… Ma is cook, so I can always… get something,’ he said, his speech slow and hesitant. Myka thanked him for his offer. They had barely settled in before they were summoned to Lady Lichinara’s chambers. The lady of the castle was elegantly dressed, her hair unnaturally dark for one of her advancing years. She did not rise. Gildarn bowed low and performed introductions.

  ‘I am always glad to see quality merchandise, but do not think I’m a fool,’ Lichinara said. ‘The silk trade is controlled by the grand marl and I’ll wager your goods haven’t been through any customs house. I expect a significant discount.’

  Gildarn flushed like a boy caught with his nose in the larder. He barked orders at Myka, demanding he lay out the silks. Gildarn was a good actor, Myka had to admit. Everyone had a secret. If Lichinara thought she had figured out theirs, she wouldn’t go digging for the real truth. Gildarn presented her with a series of patterned and painted silks, talking knowledgeably about warp and weft, crepe and organzine. It was easy to see he’d been a silk merchant in his previous life.

  ‘Will Marl Orwin be joining us?’ Nerika asked abruptly. Gildarn gave her a warning look. Her impatience was poorly disguised. Fortunately, Lichinara was too engrossed in the silks to notice.

  ‘My husband has more important matters to attend to, so he tells me,’ she drawled. Nerika pulled Myka aside as Gildarn and Lichinara haggled over the price.

  ‘If Orwin isn’t here, we’re wasting our time,’ Nerika hissed. ‘Can’t you scan someone to see if he’s even in the castle?’

  Myka shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m not really very good at that sort of thing.’

  A deal was struck for two bales of intricately patterned organzine. Lichinara insisted they stay the night, assuring them they would be paid on the morrow.

  ‘My husband keeps the key to the safe,’ she said, pursing her lips in annoyance. At that moment a hairless man in a rich velvet doublet burst into the room, a crumpled sheet of paper in his hand.

  ‘He’s coming!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Orwin, how dare you burst in like a ruffian. Can’t you see I have visitors?’

  ‘But Grand Marl Rastran – he’s on his way here!’

  The bale Myka was carrying slipped out of his hands.

  ‘Have a care, boy.’ Gildarn cuffed him round the head. Myka reckoned he enjoyed the role of master a little too much.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered as he retrieved the parcel. Orwin thrust the letter under his wife’s nose.

  ‘He’s visiting all the marls, getting them to prove their loyalty. Where’s Podr
ik?’

  He pulled the bell cord so forcefully it came free of its lever. Podrik arrived almost at once, leading Myka to suspect he’d been listening at the door. Orwin thrust the broken bell cord at him distractedly.

  ‘Fetch your mother, Podrik. We must have the best feast she’s ever prepared. Rastran had Marl Cruskin executed for keeping back his best wine. Hung his two daughters up beside him.’

  ‘Fortunate then that we have no daughters,’ Lichinara remarked. ‘Calm yourself, Orwin. We have nothing to fear. We have always been loyal to the throne.’

  Orwin seemed to notice his visitors for the first time.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Nobody to concern you, Orwin,’ Lichinara said. ‘Our business is concluded.’

  ‘Not quite, my lady,’ said Gildarn with a polite cough. ‘There’s still the matter of payment.’ Myka shuffled impatiently. Why was Gildarn stalling? Didn’t he realise they needed to leave before Rastran arrived?

  ‘Orwin, pay the fellow.’ Lichinara wafted her hand in the air as if dispersing a bad smell.

  ‘Dearest, you had your allowance but a few days ago. Surely it isn’t spent already?’

  ‘That pitiful stipend wouldn’t keep a shopkeeper in aprons. We need to make a good impression on our new grand marl.’

  ‘There’s no time to make up new robes, woman. They are already on their way.’

  ‘They? Who else is coming?’

  ‘Highmaster Strinverl and a whole flock of mindweavers.’

  Myka winced as Nerika’s emotions battered against his protective barrier. Strinverl was responsible for Justyn’s death. He tried to attract Gildarn’s attention, hoping for some help, but Gildarn seemed preoccupied. Myka bit his lip as he fought to suppress Nerika’s sudden burst of emotion. Fortunately, no one was paying him any attention. It was one of the few perks of playing a servant.