‘Lady Anara, you are an honoured guest. We owe you much for the work you have done here, but the scent of your fire spreads. How will our youngsters learn restraint if they see such an example of profligacy? The snows are still high.’
‘Of course.’ Anara moved quickly to smother the fire. ‘My apologies. I did not mean to disrespect your customs.’
Lungrid continued to make her point.
‘I know we have had an excellent buckthorn harvest this year but what if we are not so fortunate in future years? Our youngsters must not be cossetted in good times lest they become unable to face hard ones.’
‘Once again, I apologise,’ said Anara. Brutila’s lip curled at Anara’s capitulation, but Lungrid seemed appeased.
‘I hope you will attend the ceremony tonight,’ she said. Brutila’s pulse quickened.
‘There’s to be a Culling after all?’ she asked eagerly.
Lungrid’s eyes slid towards her.
‘The ceremony must be honoured, even if none are chosen for the sacrifice. Our brothers and sisters from the smaller clans have already begun to arrive. They will renew the bonds of obedience. This is also important.’
‘I will be honoured to attend,’ said Anara, ‘as will my companions.’
Brutila snorted as Lungrid and her escorts departed. She strode to the fireplace and warmed her gloved hands over the faint heat that was still emanating from the ash-covered embers.
‘Why start a fire if you are going to cave in so readily? That woman is young enough to be your daughter. If you still had one.’
‘I’m going to gather more buckthorn,’ said Anara. ‘Whilst there is still enough light.’
‘She lit the fire for you, you ungrateful idiot,’ Higina said, once Anara had left. ‘Why can’t you recognise kindness when you see it?’
Chapter Forty-nine
The icy wind whistling through the high mountain pass made Zastra’s ears ache, flecks of ice scouring her cheeks like blown sand. Her eyes were watering so much she could barely see, yet it was still only autumn. She didn’t like to think how cold it would be once winter truly set in. She pressed the sides of her fur-lined hood against her ears, but was unable to stop the wind snaking icy fingers around the back of her neck. Even the fellgryffs were struggling, shuffling forward at a slow walk, their thick coats clagged with ice crystals.
The sea journey to Sendor had been mercifully quiet. The tattered remnants of the Golmeiran fleet were stretched thin and they encountered no warships. Soon after they landed, Kylen rounded up four fellgryffs. Zastra, who had ridden the feisty creatures before, had no trouble persuading one to let her mount but Kastara and Ithgol did not find it so easy. Kastara had been too eager, trying to mount before her fellgryff had dipped its head in submission, and it had sprung away from her. None of the beasts would even dip their heads for Ithgol.
‘I’m afraid they don’t like Kyrgs,’ Findar remarked as the smallest of the fellgryffs knelt in front of him and let him mount with no sign of trying to throw him off. The watching Sendorans were astonished. Such behaviour was unprecedented.
‘I asked her nicely,’ Findar explained. He persuaded the remaining fellgryffs to accept Kastara and Ithgol and they were soon on their way. They travelled quickly, avoiding Ixendred’s patrols by going cross-country. The sure-footed fellgryffs had no need for tracks or roads. They had crossed the northern border and traversed the unclaimed arid lands to the Guardians, snow-capped peaks that formed the gateway to the Northern Wastes.
Ithgol rode up beside her and gestured towards a small cave, whose entrance was just wide enough for the fellgryffs to squeeze through. Once inside, Zastra dismounted, relieved to be out of the biting wind. Ithgol helped Findar and Kastara down. They were shivering, and their lips were purple.
‘Rub your faces,’ Ithgol said. ‘Or you get frostbite.’ He demonstrated. Slowly, Zastra’s skin tingled and fizzed back to life.
‘It is time to send the fellgryffs back,’ she said reluctantly.
Kastara gave a wail of protest. Zastra had some sympathy with her distress, but there was unlikely to be any more grazing, not with winter coming and it wasn’t fair to keep the fellgryffs with them any longer. They rested in the cave overnight and in the morning Findar released the fellgryffs. Three of them leapt away, heading south as fast as they could, but his own mount rubbed her nose against his armpit and refused to leave until he pushed her away with his hand as well as his mind. Reluctantly, she trotted after the others, although with many a backwards glance.
The wind eased as they came down from the high mountain pass and the air grew less chilly as they dropped onto a broken plain. As during their journey to Aliterra, Ithgol’s foraging skills impressed his companions. Apart from the arid lands, where neither plant nor animal lived, he managed to find food anywhere.
‘How do you know it isn’t poisonous?’ Kastara asked, eyeing a dark brown beetle that Ithgol offered her with intense suspicion.
‘Try a small amount and wait. If it is bad, you will soon know it.’ He snapped the head off another beetle and sucked out the flesh. Kastara did the same, puckering up her face in disgust. She craned her head to look at the snow-capped peaks that surrounded them.
‘Does anyone live up there?’
‘No.’
‘What’s that one called?’ Kastara pointed towards a giant mountain that rose head and shoulders above the rest.
‘That is the Warrior Mountain.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘Once.’ Ithgol plunged his arm into a hole and lifted out a squirming rodent with white fur that looked like a small scrittal. He snapped its neck and added it to another he had already stuck in his belt. The trail they followed was faint but every so often the ground softened and overlapping footprints could be seen. They seemed quite fresh.
‘Kyrg warriors,’ Ithgol remarked. ‘The Golmeirans do not want the expense of feeding them over the winter.’
They crossed the plain and followed a dried-up stream bed into a wide river basin. Thick-stemmed shrubs covered in small oval leaves spread out from a dry river bed of cracked grey mud. Ithgol stopped dead.
‘It looks different to how I remember.’ He began to snuffle the air.
‘Someone is coming,’ said Findar softly. Zastra crouched down to try and see beneath the interlocking branches of the shrubs.
‘I sense them too,’ said Kastara.
‘We have not come here to hide,’ said Zastra, cupping her hands and calling out a greeting. The dark green leaves of the bushes shivered and three Kyrgs emerged – two women and girl a few years younger than the twins. Their trousers and coats were made of patched furs. Each of the women carried a spear with a serrated blade.
‘Where are the gifts?’ the girl asked, leaning to look around them, as if expecting them to be followed by a baggage train.
‘What gifts?’ asked Kastara.
‘You were not sent by Thorlberd?’ The woman who spoke had a bird-shaped tattoo over her right eye. She tightened her grip on her spear and Zastra thought quickly.
‘I have a gift for Chief Guthan Jelgar, but it is too large to carry,’ she said. It was the truth, sort of. ‘I request an audience.’
The woman snorted.
‘Request? Unusually polite for a Golmeiran.’ She eyed Ithgol with suspicion.
‘What clan are you? What rank?’
Ithgol rolled up his left sleeve to reveal three round tattoos of different colours running up his forearm. Zastra knew the Kyrgs added one each year, at the Culling. Ithgol had run away and so did not have any recent tattoos. The woman sucked air through her teeth and her companions flinched as if they had been bitten by a snake.
‘Mordaka!’ cried the young girl in horror. The woman with the bird tattoo examined Ithgol closely.
‘Ithgol, of Clan Rasmuth,’ she said. ‘I remember you, although I was only a girl at the time. Your sister refused sacrifice.’
Ithgol thrust back his shoulders. ‘It was I
who refused. She would have accepted her fate.’
‘We believed you had died.’
‘She did. I did not.’
‘You know the fate of Mordaka?’
‘I am ready.’
‘No,’ Zastra protested. ‘No one is to die. Not until I have spoken with Jelgar. I hope to obtain a pardon for Ithgol.’
‘There has never been clemency for Mordaka.’
‘Not every tradition is worth keeping,’ said Zastra, ‘particularly if we wish things to change for the better.’
The woman examined Zastra, her gaze as intense as that of a caralyx stalking her prey. Zastra returned her stare evenly.
‘I will take you to Jelgar,’ the Kyrg woman said at last, ‘but I know of no gift that can prevent the fate of Mordaka.’
Findar introduced himself to the young Kyrginite girl.
‘I am Megra, granddaughter of Jelgar,’ she said in response.
‘So, you’re like royalty around here?’
She laughed, a strangled guttural sound.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘That’s not how it works,’ she said. ‘Lungrid is Chief Guthene because she is the best hunter. She and Voghal are teaching me. Perhaps one day I will be good enough to succeed her, but it would not have anything to do with my grandfather.’
‘I thought Jelgar was in charge?
Megra rolled her eyes.
‘He is Chief Guthan. He rules the men.’
‘So Lungrid oversees the women?’
Megra nodded. ‘Only a woman can truly understand and judge another woman. For men it is the same.’
‘If anything happened to Jelgar, who would become chief? Your father?’
‘Don’t you Golmeirans ever listen?’
‘Um, I meant no offence,’ said Findar quickly. ‘I just want to understand.’
‘There would be a contest, open to any of our warriors. My father included.’
Findar continued to talk with Megra as Lungrid led them through the closely planted buckthorn. Ithgol lagged behind. Zastra dropped back to him.
‘I won’t let them execute you,’ she said.
‘You cannot understand my shame,’ he growled and refused to say anything more. They continued until they reached the Kyrg settlement, where it was Zastra’s turn to be rendered speechless.
Chapter Fifty
Zastra sat stiffly on a mat of woven reeds, legs crossed and back upright. Facing her, also seated, was Chief Guthan Jelgar, his muscular arms bare to the shoulder. His expression was difficult to read, not least because the whole of his face was covered in tattoos. Chains of blue threaded between green and black swirls, his naturally red-hued skin peeping out only rarely between the patches of ink. His hair, so pale it was almost white, was tied loosely into a horsetail.
They were in the largest of the rondavels. Its circular wall was constructed of small stones packed together, the gaps between plugged with clay. A roof of thatched buckthorn domed above them. At either end lay fireplaces of rough-carved stone, both empty, even though it was cold enough for Zastra to see her own breath. The air felt damp and had a musky odour that reminded Zastra of Dalbric and Etta’s goat shed. The rondavel was packed with Kyrgs, seated shoulder to shoulder, those at the front so close that their damp breath mingled with hers. A warrior with his entire left cheek inked solid black had snarled vile threats in Zastra’s ear as she had walked past and he was not alone. Anger rose from the seated warriors like hot steam. Zastra suspected many had fought at Uden’s Teeth, judging by the recent scars and still-bandaged wounds. Such spectators would hardly help her cause, but she had been told that Kyrginite business was always conducted openly. At least Jelgar had agreed to listen to what she had to say rather than killing her on sight. Seated next to him at a place of equal prominence was Lungrid, her spear laid on the ground beside her. Zastra herself was flanked by Findar and Kastara. To their left, Ithgol knelt forlornly, his hands bound behind his back. Opposite him sat Higina and Brutila and between them, a slight figure that Zastra didn’t dare look at. She felt the warmth of her mother’s gaze upon her, but she could not allow herself to be distracted.
Jelgar began.
‘I will speak plainly,’ he said. ‘I am allied with Thorlberd. You are his enemy. Therefore, you are my enemy.’
He drew one of his scythals out of its scabbard and rested it across his lap. It was not a promising beginning. Zastra opened out her palms.
‘I too will speak plainly. I grew up hating Kyrginites. I was taught that you were cannibals and savages. When you helped overthrow my father, that hatred only burned stronger.’
Her words drew an intake of breath from her mother. Zastra blinked and continued.
‘Ithgol showed me I was wrong.’
Jelgar did not so much as glance towards Ithgol.
‘Why did you come?’
‘To help you. You are slaves and you do not know it.’ A low rumble of discontent spread around the assembled Kyrgs.
‘Lies!’ said Brutila. ‘It is a trick, Jelgar. Do not listen.’
‘It is no trick. These mindweavers control you.’
‘Nobody controls a Kyrginite chieftain.’ Jelgar crushed air with his fist.
The rumbling grew more threatening. Findar reached out and gripped Zastra’s arm. The Kyrgs were ready to erupt, yet she must twist the knife.
‘Ithgol has told me of your ways. By Kyrginite tradition, the chief guthan leads his men in battle. Yet I do not recall seeing you at Uden’s Teeth.’
Shouts broke out and many of the Kyrgs jumped to their feet, their faces murderous. Jelgar held up his hand. The hush was instant.
‘You accuse me of being a coward?’ His voice could have ground rocks to dust.
‘Ithgol has shown me that Kyrgs are no cowards.’ Zastra kept her voice even. ‘Your absence from battle is proof of what I say. Tell me, what has Thorlberd given you in return for the lives of your menfolk?
‘In return?’ Jelgar frowned.
‘Thorlberd could never have taken Golmeira or Sendor without your help. But what do you gain by it?’
There was a silence. Lungrid turned towards Jelgar. ‘We women have often wondered,’ she said. ‘But it is not our role to question the will of the chief guthan.’ Jelgar stared at the mat as if he was trying to dig out the answer.
‘This war is righteous,’ he said. ‘Vital to secure the future of the Kyrginite nation.’
‘How so?’ Zastra asked.
‘There was money,’ Jelgar said uncertainly. ‘Twenty thousand tocrins.’
‘Where is it?’
A thick vein rose up beneath the tattooed skin on Jelgar’s temple.
‘Don’t listen to these lies,’ said Brutila. Beside her, Higina licked her lips. Lungrid sniffed the air as if hunting for a spoor. She turned towards the plump mindweaver, whose face was popping with beads of sweat.
‘This one stinks of fear.’
‘Would you really trade lives for money?’ Zastra continued. ‘All the tocrins in Golmeira will not keep the winter away.’
Without warning, Lungrid lifted her spear and struck out at Zastra, her eyes clouded and blank. Zastra had been alert, waiting for something like this. Stiff-armed, she parried the stem of the spear, diverting the tip away from her neck. With a twist of her body, she wrenched the spear from Lungrid’s grasp.
‘It’s Brutila!’ exclaimed Findar, leaping up. ‘She made Lungrid do it!’
‘Block her,’ Zastra commanded. An instant later, Lungrid’s eyes cleared. She looked at her spear, which was still in Zastra’s hands, and then examined her own empty palms.
‘I am dishonoured,’ she whispered.
‘No,’ said Zastra, returning the spear. ‘Golmeiran treachery is to blame.’ She turned back to Jelgar.
‘They have been controlling you just like they did Lungrid. We can make it stop. Kastara, you know what to do.’
Her sister closed her eyes for a short moment.
‘It is done,’ she said
.
‘I did not feel anything.’ Jelgar was unconvinced.
‘What about your alliance with Thorlberd? Do you still feel the same way?’
After a moment’s consideration, Jelgar leapt to his feet.
‘Treachery!’ he roared.
‘Mercy!’ cried Higina, backing away. ‘Thorlberd made us do it.’
‘Quiet, you fool!’ Brutila snapped, but too late. Higina’s desperate pleadings had the opposite effect to what she intended. They amounted to an admission of guilt. Every Kyrg in the rondavel leapt to their feet. Scythals were ripped free of their scabbards.
‘Stop!’ commanded Lungrid. ‘They are women. It is my place to judge them, not yours.’
Higina was already halfway to the door, Kyrginite warriors and hunters collapsing in front of her. Lungrid launched her spear. The point disappeared between Higina’s shoulder blades. The mindweaver crashed to the ground, stone dead.
‘To run is not honourable,’ Lungrid remarked. ‘She sealed her own fate.’ She turned towards Brutila. Anara rose and placed herself between them.
‘Lungrid, I beg you let your justifiable anger settle before you pass sentence on Brutila. She is only a soldier, obeying orders.’
‘I don’t ask you to plead for me,’ Brutila snarled. Lungrid studied Anara for a moment.
‘You would spare this spy?’ Jelgar knuckles cracked as he closed one hand around the other.
‘Do not interfere, Jelgar,’ said Lungrid. ‘Lady Anara is right. Anger is not a wise judge. Put Brutila in the dry well until I am ready to decide her fate.’ A dozen hunters surrounded Brutila and bound her arms.
‘I’ll go with them to make sure Brutila doesn’t use her powers to escape,’ offered Kastara, following the hunters as the scar-faced mindweaver was dragged away. The Kyrg with the black cheek broke from the crowd.
‘You have failed us, Jelgar,’ he growled. ‘I invoke the right of challenge.’
Jelgar’s eyes glowed. ‘With pleasure, Tholgrad,’ he replied. His shoulders relaxed as if he welcomed the challenge as the most precious of gifts.
Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set Page 94
