The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

  She lifted her hands away and groped in her sack for the healing ointment. Pedrin gave a little cry. ‘Briony, look!’

  Briony turned and looked. To her surprise the blood had stopped spraying. Briony frowned and tentatively laid both her bloodstained hands over the wound again. When she lifted them away, there was once again a perceptible lessening of the flow of blood.

  Briony lifted both her hands and stared at them in bemusement. They were covered in blood, both Lisandre’s and her own, pumping out of the cuts on her fingers.

  ‘Pedrin, you try,’ she said in a strange, distant voice.

  Pedrin obediently laid down the starthorn twig and pressed both his hands as hard as he could over Lisandre’s wounds. When he lifted them away, the ragged lips of the gash seemed to have closed a little, and the blood was flowing only sluggishly. Lisandre murmured and opened her eyes, then tried to sit up. Although she shivered every now and again, the dreadful jerking of her limbs had stopped.

  ‘Blood,’ Briony said. ‘’Tis our blood that’s healing her.’

  ‘Our blood?’ Pedrin said blankly, looking down at his bloodied fingers.

  ‘’Tis the second riddle of the Erlrune’s,’ Briony said. ‘To make whole what was torn, kith must be as kin. For kith to be as kin, what is whole must be torn.’ Slowly she repeated the first line. ‘“To make whole what was torn”. It meant Lisandre’s arm all along. If we hadn’t cut our fingers on the bit of glass . . . I had Sedgely’s blood on me hands too, from when I patted his shoulder. I remember me hand came up all bloody.’

  ‘Our blood!’ he cried and pressed his hands over the wound again. ‘Oh, we need Durrik and t’others! Where are they? We need them here!’

  THIRTY-SIX

  At that very moment, Durrik, Mags and Sedgely were hurrying down a dark spiral staircase. They were all dressed in the white and gold castle livery, having shed their fur-trimmed coats at the very first opportunity.

  After the others had climbed down to the count’s balcony, the river-roan had flown to the top of the square keep, the only tower not topped by a tall, pointed spire. The guards on duty there had been leaning over the battlement, watching the commotion in the courtyard below, and so had plenty of warning of their coming. Sedgely was able to knock one out with a well-timed kick of his hind hooves, however, and Mags banged the other over the head with the frying pan so that he crumpled where he stood.

  As soon as the two children had slid down to the snow-encrusted pavement, Sedgely transformed back into an old man, his wings dissolving into nothing, like his mane and tail. He had looked over his shoulder at his bruised and bloodied bare back and said rather regretfully, as he gratefully huddled into Durrik’s coat, ‘Well, I couldn’t expect to keep them, I s’pose.’

  ‘Come on!’ Durrik cried. Leaning heavily on his crutch, he limped over to the door and banged it open, an impatient Mags at his heels.

  Sedgely had followed slowly, grumbling, ‘Hold your horses, young feller! You two have been sitting pretty while I’ve had to fly all this way, carrying all five of you great, heavy lumps on me back. Give a poor old man a chance to catch his breath.’

  ‘We haven’t time,’ Durrik had responded, hobbling down the stairs as fast as he could, his crippled leg stiff and cramped after the long ride.

  ‘Always in such a rush, you young things,’ the old man sighed, limping along behind.

  With Thundercloud running at their heels, they had come to the end of the staircase, opening the door carefully and peeking out. A squire had been walking towards them, carrying a tray. They waited until he was right at the door, then swung it open, whacking him in the face. Durrik had seized him and dragged him in, while Mags banged him over the head with the frying pan. Despite his weariness and pain, Sedgely, somehow managed to catch the tray with its ceramic jug and two tankards, stopping it from crashing to the ground. While Durrik quickly changed into the squire’s clothes, he had poured himself a tankard of apple-ale and drunk deeply.

  Wiping his mouth, he said with satisfaction, ‘That’s the stuff to warm you on such a wintry day!’

  They had locked the door upon the unconscious squire then made their cautious way down the corridor, looking in all the doors. They found an outfit for Sedgely hanging over the bed-rail in one of the bedrooms, and another for Mags on the back of a serving-girl, leaving her tied and gagged in a cupboard. By now their confidence was rising and they hurried down the spiral staircase, Thundercloud bounding along before them. Although it was obvious Sedgely’s injuries were bothering him, he made no complaint, limping on valiantly.

  A great shout and clatter below gave them just enough warning to conceal themselves hastily behind the hanging tapestries. Peering out cautiously, Durrik saw Lord Zavion stride out of a door, Lady Donella smiling and simpering at his elbow.

  ‘You must not allow the prisoners to be rescued!’ the Regent commanded. ‘The hearthkin are sullen and angry as it is. All we need is one spark and the whole county could go up in flames! Make sure they are kept securely incarcerated and that those hearthkin brats are captured and held.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the commander of the garrison said, bowing low.

  Lord Zavion turned and glided up the stairs, his handsome face marred by a petulant scowl. Lady Donella rustled after him. ‘Oh, my lord, I am so glad we have such a strong, decisive Regent to protect us in these times of trouble and strife. Just imagine the turmoil the county would be in if you were not here! Those soldiers are weak and badly trained and infected with my poor, dear, dead cousin-in-law’s soft notions about the hearthkin serfs. I swear they would have done nothing to stamp out this insurrection if you were not here.’

  Durrik held back a quivering Thundercloud as the two starkin glided right past where they were hiding behind the tapestries. Lord Zavion murmured something in response, and then their voices faded away as they turned the corner.

  Meanwhile, the commander of the garrison had gone back into the guardroom. They could hear him addressing the soldiers sternly. ‘You heard him, boys! Grab your weapons and let’s get moving. Quadruple guard on the dungeons and the rest of you, search the castle! Those children have to be found.’

  Durrik and Mags looked at each other in dismay. ‘How did Lord Zavion know we mean to rescue the hearthkin?’ the crippled boy whispered.

  ‘Don’t a-worry about that now, let’s a-worry about stopping those soldiers!’ Mags said. She pulled out the wallet of lock-picking tools from her pocket. ‘If I slam that door shut, are you strong enough to hold it shut while I lock it on them?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so,’ Durrik replied.

  ‘Well, you’re a-going to have to!’ Mags snapped. ‘Come on!’

  She charged out from behind the tapestry, Thundercloud leaping ahead of her, and sped down the stairs. His heart sinking, Durrik followed with Sedgely right behind, shaking his head and pulling doubtfully at his beard. ‘So rash!’ the old man said. ‘So impetuous!’

  The tall soldier was standing right by the door, shouting instructions. His golden eyes glinting balefully, Thundercloud lowered his horns and charged. The soldier was knocked to the ground with a cry of surprise and pain. Before anyone could react, Thundercloud had spread his black wings and soared out of the guardroom, Mags slamming the door shut behind him. Durrik and Sedgely held the door shut with all their strength as the bandit-girl fumbled with her tools. They felt the handle being twisted and then fists began to beat on the door, the soldiers within shouting in anger. The door handle was tugged so hard Durrik thought his arms would be wrenched from their sockets. Just when it seemed the soldiers within would drag the door open, the lock snapped shut.

  Mags gave a huge sigh and looked up at the others. ‘Thank Liah!’ she breathed. ‘I knew me pa’s tools would come in handy.’ Defiantly she scrubbed her eyes dry and wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘Though I must say I’ve never locked a door with them before.’

  ‘Let’s get a-moving before anyone hears them a-shout
ing,’ Durrik cried, breaking into an awkward run, his crutch swinging wildly. For once there was no protest from Sedgely, who led the way down the steps in a scrambling rush.

  A few more turns and they began to find it hard to see their way, for there were no windows here, only the occasional lantern hanging on the wall. The air smelt foul, and the wall beneath their fingers was slimy.

  They came to a thick oaken door, firmly locked. With a few deft manipulations of the tools Mags carried in her pocket, the lock clicked open. Slowly she swung the door open and they stepped cautiously inside.

  Within was a square guardroom, its walls hung with weapons of all kinds. A wooden table stood in the centre of the room, its surface greatly pitted and scarred. There was a fire burning merrily on the hearth, a kettle whistling on the hob, and three tankards and a jug of apple-ale on the table.

  ‘Don’t like the look of that whistling kettle,’ Durrik began. Before he could finish his sentence, they heard heavy steps approaching, and then the door on the opposite side of the room swung open. A heavily armed man came in, saying cheerily over his shoulder, ‘Kettle’s boiled, Darrion. How ’bout that hot toddy?’

  He then saw the three intruders hesitating on the doorstep and his mouth dropped open. Then he was calling loudly, ‘Darrion, Raymond, to arms! To arms!’

  A sword in his hand, he came charging across the room. Close behind him were two more guards, even bigger and uglier than the first. With a little shriek, Mags raised the frying pan and Durrik his crutch, but neither had much hope of keeping the guards off. It was more a gesture of defiance than anything else.

  Calmly Sedgely stepped forward, breathing two long spumes of mist out his nose. Fog rolled forward, engulfing the men. Shivering with cold, Durrik and Mags huddled behind him, trying to see. For a long time, nothing happened, though it grew so cold Durrik’s fair skin turned blue and Mags’s teeth were chattering. Then slowly the mist subsided. There the three men stood, frozen into immobility, encased in a thick sheath of ice.

  ‘Another old river-roan trick,’ Sedgely said. He stepped past the three men and poured himself a cup of apple-ale. ‘Got a bit chilly in here,’ he explained before quaffing the cup with evident enjoyment.

  Rubbing their goose-pimpled arms vigorously, Mags and Durrik rather gingerly stepped past the three blocks of ice. Inside the three men stood, their expressions frozen into grimaces of rage, their weapons still raised.

  ‘How long will they stay frozen?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ Sedgely said, wiping his straggly moustache.

  ‘We’d best hurry then,’ Durrik said.

  ‘For once I agree with you, young feller,’ Sedgely said. ‘If ever this was a time for being hasty . . .’

  They hurried through the door and found themselves in a long, dank corridor, lit only by one lantern. Iron doors lined the corridor, each with a little flap at eye level and another near the floor. Mags pulled out her lock-picking tools with a flourish and began to work on the nearest door, while a rather nervous Durrik kept a close eye on the ice-bound guards and the door beyond.

  Mags flung open the door and the prisoners within flinched back, holding up their hands against the dim glow of the lantern. There were fifteen or more crammed inside the small room, with nothing to sleep on but filthy-looking straw. All looked thin and sick, with torn clothes and old bruises discolouring their faces and arms. The room stank horribly.

  ‘Papa?’ Durrik said incredulously.

  A gaunt man with wild, straggling grey hair and a grimy frock-coat dropped his protective hand, peering at the figure in the doorway suspiciously. ‘Durrik? No, it can’t be!’

  ‘Papa!’ Durrik cried and flung himself across the room.

  Johan embraced him close, saying shakily, ‘Merciful Marithos! I thought you dead.’

  ‘Not I!’ Durrik said with a forced grin. ‘I’m hard to kill. What about you? You look ghastly. Have they mistreated you?’

  ‘Not unless you call a-starving us and a-beating us and a-depriving us of our freedom “mistreatment”,’ the bell-crier said grimly. ‘My Lord Regent has a great deal to answer for! Does he think I don’t know the laws of the land, just because I’m a hearthkin? Get me free of this stinking cesspool and I’ll make sure the king hears of this! Lord Zavion had no right to throw the whole town into his dungeons, and the reeve and constable too when they complained!’

  Mags had been busy unlocking the other cells while Durrik greeted his father, and now the corridor was filled with a great crowd of lean, angry prisoners, all muttering with resentment and indignation. Durrik’s heart sank at the sight of them, however. There was not one who did not look as if their legs might collapse under them at any moment. He thought of the tall, well-built starkin men-at-arms with their armour and fusilliers and knew a moment of black hopelessness.

  A painfully thin hand seized his arm. ‘Pedrin? Where’s me Pedrin? Is he alive too? Oh, Liah’s eyes, let him be safe.’

  Durrik could only stare at her, dumbfounded. How could this wild-eyed, wild-haired woman be Maegeth? She was so thin her cheekbones stuck out like shelves and he could see the separate bones in her wrist. Her skin was grey and stretched so tight her big mouth was like a skeleton’s grimace. By her side cowered a little girl.

  Durrik whispered their names. The woman ignored him, sobbing aloud. ‘Oh, please, is me boy alive? Is he alive?’

  ‘Yes,’ Durrik whispered. ‘He’s here too.’ He jerked a thumb upwards. ‘He’s a-waking the sleeping count. At least, I hope he is.’

  ‘Thank Imala!’ Maegeth whispered. For a moment she crouched down, her hands over her face, then she stood up, some of her old fire and determination returning. ‘How do you come to be here?’ Her gaze flickered over Mags and Sedgely in surprise and consternation. ‘Is this your rescue party, you and a little girl and an old man?’

  ‘Merciful Marithos, surely not!’ Johan cried.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Durrik said. ‘But, please, we must get out of here. We locked the guards in their room but it won’t be long before they break out and then they’ll be a-heading straight down here. We need to get moving!’

  ‘You mean . . . you have no-one to help us fight free?’ Johan cried. ‘I thought you must’ve stormed the castle, mebbe with Diamond Joe and his men.’

  ‘Diamond Joe is dead,’ Mags said stonily. ‘I’m his daughter. Would you stop your blathering and get a-moving like Durrik says? Else we’ll be in the slam with yer!’

  Dazed and confused, the prisoners all stumbled up the stairs into the guardroom. At the sight of the three guards entombed within their shrouds of ice, a murmur of amazement arose. Their initial surprise wearing off, the hearthkin busied themselves cramming food and apple-ale into their mouths and seizing weapons from the wall.

  Suddenly there was a great shout of excitement. One of the men had pushed open another door at the end of the room, and found the armoury room. Here were shelves stacked high with fusilliers, both short-range and long-range, and tanks full of high-octane fuel, and brackets filled with long spears and curved daggers.

  All the hearthkin men had always longed for a chance to examine the fusilliers and so they all crowded into the room, exclaiming with interest. Mags danced about in her impatience, unable to believe they would waste time running their hands over the gleaming blue weapons, lifting them to their eye so they could squint through the view-finder, arguing over the best way to attach the fuel-pump. The weight of the fusilliers in their hands gave all the hearthkin men a surprising animation. They began to growl with anticipation, saying things like, ‘Just let me get that dandyprat Regent in me view-finder and he’ll soon know what it feels like to be blown to dust and ashes!’

  With every one of them heavily armed, the hearthkin men felt a lot more cheerful and they followed Mags and Durrik with no further delay.

  They heard the faint shouting and hammering of fists on the stout, oaken door of the guardroom as they came round the curve of the spiral stairwell. Mags and Dur
rik grinned at each other.

  ‘Right, boyos,’ said the town constable, Galton of the Granite-Fist. ‘Six of you stay here and keep your weapons trained on that door. If they break through, shoot ’em!’

  ‘No, no, you mustn’t shoot them,’ said the town reeve, Aubin the Fair, named as much for his unusually pale hair as for his well-known integrity. ‘Just hold them at bay. We’ll have to be a-taking our case to the king’s courts and if we act with restraint, they’ll commend us for it.’

  ‘All right then, hold ’em at bay unless they make a run for it, and then shoot ’em!’ Galton said.

  ‘Let’s just hope they make a run for it,’ Burkett the field foreman said, setting up a fusillier so it pointed directly at the door. ‘All right, Galton, we’ve got this rat’s nest covered. Good luck!’

  As they climbed on up the spiral staircase, Pedrin’s little sister Mina slipped her hand into Durrik’s. ‘I knew you and Pedrin would come,’ she said happily. ‘I’m so glad you did.’

  ‘So am I,’ he said gently, knowing how upset Pedrin would be when he saw how thin and sick Mina was looking.

  ‘Did Thundercloud and Snowflake come too?’ she asked, looking up at him hopefully. ‘I’ve missed them so!’

  Durrik hesitated, an image of the bloodied and gutted Snowflake flashing before his mind’s eye. He was almost overwhelmed by grief, remembering all the times the little nanny-goat had run by his side so he could lean on her back, or comforted him with her warm, clover-scented presence. ‘Snowflake’s dead,’ he said as gently as he could, though his voice rasped in his throat. ‘She saved us from a sisika bird.’

  Tears welled up in Mina’s eyes. ‘Snowflake’s dead? Oh, no!’

  ‘But we’re all alive because of it,’ Durrik said, his own eyes prickling. ‘She was a hero.’

  ‘Heroine,’ Mina corrected him, rather smartly.