Polina flushed modestly at the compliment. Nerika took up the tale.
‘Once the mindweavers were dealt with, Pol and Drazan disabled most of Rastran’s sailors, but then the migaradon came for us. It was bleeding, but we could see that you had only succeeded in landing a single shot.’
Justyn laughed. ‘You should have heard Nerika cursing you.’
Nerika sniffed.
‘I admit it. I thought you’d failed us. It certainly looked that way. Ithgol seized one of Vingrod’s spears and bellowed in that Kyrginite way of his. The migaradon went straight for him and the stupid beast impaled itself on the spear. It would have carried Ithgol off into the air, since the stubborn fool of a Kyrg refused to let go of the spear. It took three of us to hold him down and wrench the spear out. The migaradon was so mad at Ithgol it went for him again, and that’s when he got in the final blow.’
‘Good work, Kyrg,’ Kylen remarked grudgingly.
‘It would not be pleasant to be killed by a migaradon.’
‘Is there a pleasant way to die?’ asked Zastra.
‘I could think of some distinctly unpleasant ways to kill Rastran,’ Kylen muttered darkly. ‘I wish you’d let me blow up the dungeons with him and his scientists inside. They deserve no less.’
‘They may deserve it,’ Zastra conceded. ‘But then we’d be no better than them. Leaving them to face Thorlberd’s anger will be punishment enough.’
‘Fine. But someday you may regret not killing that cousin of yours.’
‘It’s time we returned to Uden’s Teeth,’ said Justyn. ‘When Thorlberd hears what has happened, he’ll send his whole army and I don’t intend to be around when they get here.’
It took less than a day to pack up and leave. Zastra stood on the quarterdeck of the Wind of Golmeira, watching Murthen Island recede into the distance. To her right, one of the Obala’s catapults groaned. A smoking bale arced towards one of Rastran’s ships, which was tethered against the main jetty of the island. The deck of the ship was piled high with brown sacks. For a moment, even though the contents of the catapult appeared to have hit home, nothing happened. Then, the ship disappeared, and was supplanted by a huge plume of water. The appearance of the plume was followed a heartbeat later by a thunderous roar. A landslide obliterated the jetty and a vast cloud of dust spread upwards into the clear blue sky. Zastra’s lips twitched in satisfaction. Kylen had taken great pleasure in telling Rastran and his mindweaver friends that they had buried the sintegrack directly beneath their cell. A lie, but when Rastran felt the explosion, he must have thought for a moment that his end had come. He and his so-called scientists deserved to feel a little of what they had inflicted on others. They had been left plenty of food and water, and Thorlberd’s reinforcements would soon be on the way to rescue them. The decision to destroy the sintegrack had not been reached easily. Nerika and Kylen wanted to take it back to Uden’s Teeth. Something to use against Thorlberd, but Zastra had insisted it be destroyed and Justyn had agreed with her. The only scientist who knew the recipe had died in the battle for Murthen Island. With every last bag of sintegrack destroyed, there would be no more. A world without such a destructive weapon was much preferable to one with it, to Zastra’s mind.
Above the fortress, her father’s crest fluttered in the breeze. A message left behind for her uncle. Soft footsteps on the deck made her turn. It was Dobery.
‘It was a good victory, Zastra. Worthy of a Warrior of Golmeira. Your father would have been proud.’
Zastra thought of Gonjik and Jerenik and all the others they had lost.
‘We paid a heavy price. They never mention that in the Tales of the Warriors.’
‘They don’t. But we saved more lives than we took, children among them. We have put a stop to something evil and wrong. More importantly, all of Golmeira will know that you are alive and that Thorlberd is not invincible. Hope is alive again.’
Kylen emerged from the hold.
‘How’s Zax?’ asked Zastra.
‘Sleeping at last. Master Dobery, do you think his mind will ever recover?’
Dobery shrugged. ‘I wish I could reassure you, my dear. Rest and love may provide a cure. We must wait and hope.’
‘What about the other prisoners?’
‘Much the same. The children they were training to become mindweavers will need particular attention. We must be patient.’
‘You’ve forgotten you are talking to a Sendoran,’ Zastra said with a laugh.
Kylen turned to her.
‘Zastra, you have shown that you are a true friend of Sendor. You risked your life for Zax and my people. I owe you more than words can express.’
‘My uncle is too powerful for any of us to take on alone. But together we have a chance. We have seen over the past few days that Sendorans and Golmeirans, even Kyrgs, can work together.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘An alliance. To free all our people from Thorlberd’s tyranny.’
Kylen gave out a half snort.
‘A Sendoran and a Golmeiran alliance? Some would say that’s impossible.’
‘Right now, the only opinion I care about is yours. What do you say?’
Kylen reached out and clasped Zastra’s hands in hers. Her grip was firm and warm.
‘I say we should get started.’
‘I think we already have,’ replied Zastra. They watched the horizon until the outline of Murthen Island disappeared into the haze, the flag of her father still fluttering in the breeze.
THE END
Return to Golmeira
Book Three: Tales of Golmeira
Marianne Ratcliffe
Macclesfield, UK
Return to Golmeira copyright © 2017 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, 2017
ISBN 9780993400155
Published by Marianne Ratcliffe
www.marianneratcliffe.com
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my nieces and nephew. To Phoebe, Sasha and Ashton, with love from Auntie Marianne
Chapter One
Sunlight speared through the cracks in the rotting shutters. Ten year-old Joril turned her face away from the window and tugged her threadbare blanket over her head. She’d been having such a lovely dream. A rich and attractive young marl had come to the village and noticed poor Joril being forced to work at the hot ovens. Indignant at such unfair treatment, he had adopted her and given her a chest full of silk dresses, a whole shelf of new shoes and, best of all, a pony of her very own. She had become an instant favourite at the marl’s court, charming everyone with her sharp wit and the grace of her dancing. A ball had been arranged in her honour and young men queued up to ask her to dance. The handsome young marl smiled and extended his hand to take hers…
A loud crash jerked her awake.
‘Oy. Shop! We haven’t all day.’
Another stone thudded against the shutters. Enraged, Joril threw off her blanket and ran to the window.
‘Go away, and leave me alone you stupid—’
Her protest was choked off as she saw two teenage boys, mirror images of each other, standing beneath her window. They wore purple shirts. That means they are trainee mindweavers. From the castle. Both had brown hair that curled fetchingly over their ears, and one wore a silver pin on his chest in the shape of a caralyx. It was the only difference between them.
‘We’ve been knocking for ages,’ cried the boy with the silver pin. ‘There’s someone banging around downstairs, but they’re refusing to let us in. My brother Florian is starving. Some fool of an undercook burned this morning’s bread.’
Joril pulled back from the window, tore off her nightshirt and rummaged in the dresser for her favourite smock. Dressin
g quickly, she dashed down the narrow wooden staircase, grabbing her apron from its peg as she passed. The familiar smells of yeast and fresh bread hit her nostrils. Dalka, her mother, was in the back room, lifting the hot bread from the stone oven with the large flat peel, her arms protected by stuffed woollen mittens. She flinched as Joril barrelled into the shop.
‘Sorry, Mother. Didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘There you are at last, duckie. Thank the stars. Someone’s here.’ Dalka glanced fearfully at the door. The bamboo slats shook as fists pounded on it from the outside. Dalka shrank back into the oven room.
‘It’s all right, Mother. I’ll let them in.’
Joril kicked out the wooden wedge that held the door in place and slid it aside. Cold air whistled in to mingle with the heat from the ovens. The boy with the silver pin strode to the counter and plucked the nearest loaf straight off Dalka’s peel.
‘Aiyee! That’s hot!’
He dropped the steaming loaf onto the floor and blew on his fingers.
‘You’ll have to pay for that.’ The words were out of Joril’s mouth before she before she could stop herself. It was unwise to cross mindweavers. She recalled an incident when one of the village children had trodden on a mindweaver’s black cape. The mindweaver had done something that had sent the girl running back to her mother’s arms, screaming. The child hadn’t dared leave her house since. Joril braced herself.
‘Relax, girl. We can afford it, can’t we, Fester?’ It was the other twin who had spoken. He tossed a tocrin up in the air and the coin began to twirl upwards in a spiral, like a leaf caught in an updraft. Joril gasped in amazement. Mindmoving. Here, in their bakery. Wait ’til I tell Lylian about this.
‘Florian, do stop showing off,’ his brother drawled. The tocrin came to halt in mid-air and then danced towards her. Joril opened her hand and the coin dropped into her palm. Florian plucked three brown rolls from the counter, tucked two into a large pocket inside his trousers and began to munch on the third.
‘Mm-mm. S’great. Really tasty.’
Fester took another two rolls and kicked the loaf of bread that had fallen on the floor towards Joril.
‘You can have that, Flour-head. No need to say thanks.’
Joril clapped her hands to her hair and squeaked with horror as a white cloud was dislodged. The twins’ laughter followed her as she raced back up to her bedroom and stared in the rust-mottled mirror. She was covered in white flour. It got everywhere, no matter how often she washed herself. Last night she had been so tired after kneading out the dough for today’s baking, she hadn’t washed her hair before going to bed. She was usually so fastidious. Why did mindweavers have to turn up on the one day she hadn’t bathed? They would think she was a slattern, no better than Lylian. Any chance she’d had to make a good impression was lost. Through her window, she saw the twins head back towards the castle. They were laughing. At me, no doubt. She took up her empty washbowl, stormed down the stairs and out into the small yard behind the shop. At the water butt, she filled the bowl, then plunged her head in, gasping at the icy coldness. She scrubbed so hard that the water became gloopy and grey with the dislodged flour. It took three bowls before she was satisfied that she was clean.
When she finally returned, there was a long queue of people waiting to be served. She tried to ignore the frowns and mutterings of complaint as she stopped to pin back her hair before starting to serve. She was quick and efficient, but that wasn’t enough to appease everyone, particularly those at the front of the queue. She wondered, not for the first time, why everyone was so impatient. It wasn’t as if they had anywhere exciting to be.
‘I’m here for my breakfast, not lunch.’ Grejor, the blacksmith’s apprentice slapped a quarter tocrin on the counter. ‘Should’ve known better than to come to Mad Dalka’s. Tomorrow, I’ll take my business to old Irik. No queues in his shop.’
‘That’s because his bread smells like old socks,’ returned Joril sharply. ‘Come to think of it, I’m surprised you don’t already shop there. You’d feel right at home.’
‘You should treat your customers with more respect.’ Grejor fingered his collar, which was black with the same soot that coated his hands and his neck. Joril handed him his loaf.
‘And you should take a bath.’
‘I don’t pay good money to be insulted.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Joril saw Dalka cower into a ball. Her mother hated any kind of confrontation. On a good day, she could be persuaded to serve the customers, but Joril could tell that today was not going to be one of those days.
‘I would never insult you, Grejor. I was just offering some friendly advice. No extra charge,’ she said pleasantly. Grejor hovered uncertainly, trying to come up with a response. Joril peered round him to the next person in line.
‘Next!’
As fast as she served, people kept coming and the queue never seemed to get any shorter. Her fingers were soon stinging from handling the hot crusts. She thought wistfully of Florian and his mindmoving powers. How easy running the bakery would be if she could lift bread with the power of her mind. She imagined rolls and loaves dancing effortlessly through the air, a large bap inserting itself into the complaining mouth of Grejor. That particular image cheered her up immensely.
By noon, they had almost sold out and the shop was at last empty of customers. As a weary Joril lifted her apron over her head, a stocky man with ginger colouring strode jauntily through the doorway. His beard was noticeably darker and a good deal thicker than the hair on top of his head. He looked at the empty counter and whistled.
‘Done well today, I see, duckie.’
‘Father! You’ll never guess who we had in, first thing? Trainees from the castle.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He reached behind the counter and took a roll that had caught on one side and so had not been sold. He bit into it appreciatively. Joril couldn’t believe his lack of interest at her news.
‘You must have seen them, up at the castle? Twins. One of them can mindmove metal. Look!’ She reached into her apron pocket and fished out the tocrin Florian had given her. It sat flatly in her hand, the magic gone. Her father shrugged.
‘Them younguns don’t come down to the stables much. I’m paid to take care of Thorlberd’s ’orses. Rest ain’t none of my concern.’
‘I want to tell Lylian. I can go, can’t I? Please.’ Joril lowered her voice. ‘I’ve been rushed off my feet all morning.’
There was no need to admit that she’d overslept and been late opening the shop. Even though her request had been spoken in an undertone, Dalka shot out of the back room like a bolt from a crossbow. Joril’s mother might be a little loose in her mind now and then, but she had the hearing of a field mouse.
‘You can’t leave, Joril. I’ve just put in a batch of rye cakes. What if someone comes?’ She noticed her husband and her hands went to her mouth. ‘Tomik, what are you doing here? Is something wrong? You’ve lost your job, haven’t you? Oh, whatever are we to do?’
‘Nothing is wrong,’ Tomik said calmly, taking her hands in his own. ‘No bread up at the castle today, so I stopped by for some of yours, duckie. That’s all. Why d’you always take on so?’
‘We could close the shop,’ suggested Joril. ‘Just until I get back. Father, please?’
‘Why d’you keep calling him that, like one of them castle folks?’ Dalka frowned. ‘He’s your Da, ain’t he? We don’t want folks to think we’re putting on airs.’
Tomik winked at his daughter and jerked his head toward the door.
‘Off you go, duckie.’
Ignoring Dalka’s wail of protest, Joril kissed her father’s cheek and dashed from the shop. She popped briefly into the yard to run some more water through her hair, in case any flour had attached itself during her morning’s work. Then she headed for the outskirts of the village, where her friend lived. Lylian’s parents were millers and their house was even more flour-infested than the bakery. Joril had no intention of getting dir
ty again so she stopped short of the house and halloo-ed loudly. A few moments later, a short, dumpy girl poked a powdery head round the door and waved vigorously. Lylian was covered in so much flour that she looked like a batch roll. Joril often wished she had a better class of friend, but there weren’t many children of her age in the village and Lylian at least was a willing listener. She gawped as Joril told her about her visitors.
‘Everyone knows ours is the best bread around,’ Joril finished triumphantly. ‘They’re sure to come again. Maybe they’ll invite me back to the castle.’
‘Why would they do that?’ Lylian asked.
‘Maybe they’ll want me to show the castle cook a thing or two. Perhaps they’ll take me on. Like an advisor, or something.’
‘But you never actually bake the bread,’ pointed out Lylian. ‘You don’t like getting burned.’
That was true. Dalka’s hands and forearms were covered in criss-crossing pink lines from catching her skin on the edges of hot tins, or against the lip of the oven. All bakers carried such scars and Joril hated the idea of being marked as such. That was the reason she volunteered to serve the customers, even though it meant dealing with people like Grejor. She pulled a face.
‘You sound like my Auntie Bodel.’
Lylian skipped around in a circle.
‘Oh, I like your Auntie. Is she back from her travels?’
‘No, thank the stars. I don’t know where she goes every winter, but at least it keeps her out of my business.’
‘I think she’s got a secret lover,’ Lylian said with a giggle. ‘Why else would she spend so much time away from you and Dalka?’
Joril stirred restlessly.
‘I’d feel sorry for anyone who was in love with her. She’s always so cranky.’ Joril waggled her finger.
‘You must help your mother, Joril. Be more polite. Stop daydreaming and do the dishes!’
Lylian began to snort with laughter as Joril continued to mimic her aunt’s favourite reprimands.
Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set Page 47
