A chance for revenge. One she had been waiting for ever since her uncle’s betrayal. But what about Findar? He would be safer with Etta and Dalbric than if she took him to meet this Lord Justyn, but the idea of leaving him behind made her feel sick. The old mindweaver suddenly twirled round, eyes narrowing.
‘What is it?’ Zastra asked.
‘Kyrgs. Many of them and close. You must make up your mind and quickly.’
Even as Dobery spoke, a harsh cry rang through the forest, followed by a scream. It came from further down the slope.
‘Steepcrest!’ exclaimed Zastra.
‘We have no time—’ Dobery began to protest, but Zastra was already scrambling down the mountainside. The shouts became louder and she slowed to a crawl, inching forward until she was behind a leafy bush. She parted the branches and all of Steepcrest village was laid out below her. A few moments later, Dobery eased himself into position next to her, his joints cracking in protest.
Flaxen-haired men with red faces were rousing the villagers from their houses. Zastra recognised the Kyrgs instantly. They divided the villagers into two groups. The middle aged and the elderly were placed together, along with the children, while the tallest teenagers and all of the younger adults were rounded up and their hands bound. Zastra recognised Lindarn’s stocky figure. He was arguing with a large Kyrg with a tattooed face. The Kyrg grabbed the healer and flung him to the ground.
‘Can’t you do something?’ Zastra whispered to her companion. ‘Something mindweavy?’
Dobery shook his head. ‘I’m afraid there are too many, even if we had time. Which we don’t.’
‘Please, Dobery.’
Dobery’s face went blank, and she knew he was concentrating all his powers on the Kyrgs. Not for the first time, she cursed the fact that she had no mindweaving abilities. All that talent had fallen to her uncle and cousin. She could do nothing to help. Dobery roused himself.
‘There may be something I can do. Watch the guthan.’
‘What’s a guthan?’
Dobery was already lost in concentration. The Kyrg with the face tattoo staggered backwards, shaking his head. He then barked out a series of orders and gestured away from the village. Astounded, Zastra watched as all the Kyrgs charged out into the forest, leaving the villagers behind. She jumped up and raced into the village.
‘Layna!’ cried Lindarn as she emerged from the forest. ‘What are you doing here? You must leave, or they’ll take you too.’
‘I came to ask you to see Etta. She’s not well. What in the stars is going on?’
‘They are taking all the youngsters. They said they’ll kill all of us if we tried to stop them. Yet they have gone, for no reason that I could see.’
‘You must all flee,’ Dobery limped down the slope towards them. ‘I’ve bought you a few moments, no more. They’ll soon be back.’
Lindarn’s eyes narrowed. Mountain folk were generally suspicious of strangers.
‘Who are you?’
‘Never mind who I am, my good man. Suffice to say, I bring news that you are surrounded and the Kyrgs have orders to capture every young man and woman in these mountains and force them to serve in Thorlberd’s army.’
‘Everyone?’ cried Zastra. ‘Fivepeaks too?’
Dobery’s hesitation was enough.
‘I must warn Dalbric and the others.’
Dobery barred her path.
‘You have a responsibility to our people, Zastra. This is bigger than a single village. I cannot get Justyn’s woman to wait, not with Kyrgs everywhere.’
She pushed him aside.
‘Dalbric and Etta saved my life when they took us in. I will not leave them or Fin to the mercy of Kyrgs.’
As she ran, she felt him reach into her mind. Her defensive stonewall snapped into place, and she sensed a sharp flash of frustration. She paid it no heed. Fivepeaks was further from the main valley road than Steepcrest, so there was a chance the Kyrgs hadn’t reached it yet. She only hoped she could make it in time.
Chapter Eight
There was no time for stealth. Birds flapped up from the treetops with angry squawks as Zastra thundered past. Her breath rasped against the back of her throat and her mouth was as dry as sand but she dare not stop for a drink. The difference between being in time and being too late might only be a moment. The sun beat down through gaps in the leafy canopy and she was soaked with sweat by the time she reached the outskirts of Fivepeaks. She came out, chest heaving, just above the set of parallel wheel tracks that had been formed by the passage of Haq’s cart whenever it headed down the valley towards Kirkholme. Below her, a large band of Kyrgs was coming into sight round a bend, heading towards Fivepeaks. Zastra forced herself into a final sprint, her legs giving way beneath her as she stumbled into the village and clattered into the muscular frame of Kikan.
‘Layna,’ he cried. ‘What’s the matter? Lost your little brother again?’
‘Fetch everyone,’ she gasped. ‘Hurry!’ The urgency in her voice was enough. Kikan rounded up the village while Zastra used the last of her strength to bang on the door of Frecha’s house. Dalbric and Hanra emerged, squinting in the light.
‘What’s wrong? Is it Ma?’ asked Dalbric. The villagers gathered around them as Zastra sucked desperately for air.
‘Kyrgs… coming… for the young folk. Dalbric and Hanra. And the others. They’re just behind me. We’ve got to hide.’
‘What are you talking about?’ cried Hanra. ‘Layna, it’s not funny.’
Zastra was dismayed to see that no one had moved. They all just stood staring at her.
‘Dalbric, please, make them listen.’
‘Right.’ Dalbric roused himself at last. ‘Layna wouldn’t say this if it weren’t true. Everyone split up.’
‘Head up the mountain. They come from the valley.’ Zastra gestured toward the gap in the trees through which the Kyrgs might appear at any moment. The young people began to scatter, disappearing into the forest. Dalbric, Hanra and Zastra went together. Dalbric helped Hanra up into the branches of a blackwood tree, its dense needle-like foliage providing excellent cover. Zastra felt a strong shove help her up into a neighbouring tree and then Dalbric hauled himself up behind. They were only just in time. An instant later, the Kyrgs entered the village and began to search the houses. They became increasingly enraged as they found only old people and children. One of the Kyrgs dragged Frecha out of her house and appeared to be shouting at her. When she shook her head, he shoved her to the ground. Dalbric growled and started to climb down the tree. Zastra restrained him. She heard a stifled whimper from the neighbouring tree. Hanra. A jaunty whistle came from the northern edge of the village. Through the tree branches, Zastra saw Gonjik sauntering towards his house, unaware of the danger. He would walk straight into the Kyrgs. Cursing under her breath, Zastra lowered herself down from her branch.
‘What are you doing?’ Dalbric whispered fiercely. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
Zastra disregarded his warning. She bent low and crept forward, hoping to intercept Gonjik, but as she reached the edge of the track, a triumphant cry went up and two Kyrgs ran past her to grab the youth. Zastra shrank down behind the trunk of a silverfern. As they dragged their prize back to the centre of the village, one of the Kyrgs paused near Zastra’s hiding place and began snuffling the air like a hunting dog. Zastra tensed and held her breath. The Kyrg took a step towards the silver fern.
‘You monsters!’ Mexun appeared from nowhere and began to attack the Kyrgs with a large chisel. Zastra took advantage of the diversion to retreat, erasing her tracks with a leafy branch as she went. Dalbric reached down to haul her to safety. Mexun was thrown aside and Gonjik tied up and dragged away. A heavily silence descended on the village. Zastra’s legs began to cramp after her long run and she was desperately thirsty, but she dared not move.
‘Can we get down yet?’ Hanra whispered plaintively. ‘My bottom is numb from sitting on this horrid branch.’
‘Wait,’ whispered
Dalbric and Zastra in unison. They sat silently, even as the sun began to set. Zastra sighed inwardly. Nightfall. Dobery would be leaving now, along with Lord Justyn’s contact. With them went any chance Zastra had to take up the fight against her uncle. She did not regret choosing to warn Dalbric and the others, but she was sad that she had left Dobery so abruptly. She had felt his anger as he had tried to stop her. You have a responsibility to our people. The words had been Dobery’s, but in Zastra’s mind it was as if her father were talking to her, urging her to avenge him. Once again, she had failed him. She doubted Dobery would ever come back. Dalbric grabbed her wrist, rousing her from her thoughts. A pair of Kyrgs were circling around the village, using the forest as cover. The same Kyrgs who had captured Gonjik. One of them crouched down every so often and sniffed the ground. They halted directly beneath Hanra’s tree.
‘We are wasting time,’ one of the Kyrgs grumbled.
‘This is our last chance to fill the quota,’ replied the other, snuffling noisily through his flattened nose. ‘I was sure I could smell another Golmeiran. A female.’
The scar on Zastra’s back began to itch, a reminder of the time she had nearly been killed by a migaradon. Why did it always itch when she was scared? She fought the urge to scratch her back against the tree trunk and remained as motionless as if she were hunting for vizzal. Beside her, Dalbric was equally still.
‘Have you got a scent or not?’ the first Kyrg asked impatiently.
‘The trail leads here, but then stops. Makes no sense.’
‘The guthan said we had to be back at the rendezvous by nightfall. We’ll be in trouble if we’re late.’
With one last sniff, the Kyrgs gave up and jogged away down the valley road. Zastra and the others waited until they were sure the Kyrgs had gone before heading back into the village.
‘Are you all right, Frecha?’ Dalbric looked the weaver over with concern.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me, duckie. You’re all safe, that’s the main thing. Except poor Gonjik. I told them the blue fever had done for all the young folk last spring. They might have believed me if the poor lad hadn’t turned up at the wrong time.’
‘Do you think they’ll be back?’ Hanra shivered.
‘Who knows?’ Kikan said grimly. ‘You younguns should make yourself scarce tonight. Camp out in the forest. They might come back at night, hoping to catch everyone sleeping.’
Hanra did not like the idea of camping out in the forest and Dalbric invited her to come up to the cabin and stay with them. Etta, looking pinched and tired, nonetheless welcomed Hanra as an honoured guest. Hanra thanked her profusely and did not stop talking all evening, hanging on to Dalbric’s arm and repeating the events of the day over and over again. Zastra knew it was just Hanra’s way of trying to cope with what had happened, but she wished the weaver’s daughter would shut up. Every time Gonjik was mentioned, Zastra felt guilty. If only she had run faster from Steepcrest, she might have been in time to save him. He was annoying, but she didn’t like to think of him in the hands of Kyrgs. She also wanted to tell Dalbric about Dobery, but there was no chance of that, not with Hanra clinging to him like a baby goat nestling against its mother.
Eventually, Zastra took herself off to bed, leaving the others talking. She was so exhausted that she fell asleep almost immediately. She woke to find Dalbric clutching her shoulder, a candle trembling in his hand. Shaking her head to clear it, she sensed it was past dawn, as pale light filtered in through the cracks in the doors and shutters.
‘It’s Etta. She needs help.’ Dalbric’s voice was fractured with panic. Zastra sprang up, instantly alert and stumbled to Etta’s bed to find her half sitting, half lying. Her face was purple and she strained for breath as if she was being throttled by an invisible hand. She was trying to speak, but could not get the words out.
‘She can’t breathe. I don’t know what to do.’ Dalbric grasped Etta’s hand between his. Zastra propped a pillow behind Etta’s head to try and make her more comfortable, but other than that, she could think of no other way to help. Etta’s whole body jerked with the effort of trying to draw breath.
‘Ma, don’t leave us,’ Dalbric sobbed. Fin woke up, took one look at Etta and started to howl. Hanra’s head popped up from her blanket, her eyes heavy with sleep.
‘Wassmatter?’
‘Ma can’t breathe.’
‘Try steam,’ Hanra muttered, before her head dropped back onto her pillow and she fell back to sleep.
‘Steam?’ It didn’t make any sense, but they had no other ideas so Zastra stoked the stove and put a pan of water on to boil.
‘Wake Hanra up again. Get her to tell you what she means,’ she told Dalbric.
‘She won’t like that.’
‘Tough.’
Hanra took some rousing. She had no recollection of what she had said about steam, nor why she had said it.
‘I’m sorry,’ she yawned. ‘I must have been dreaming.’
‘You mean there’s nothing we can do?’ Dalbric tugged at his hair in horror. From Etta’s throat came a horrid whistling sound, like the wind trying to force its way through a narrow crack in the wall. Her eyeballs began to swell. Dalbric grabbed hold of her hands again and sucked in air, as if he would breathe for both of them. At that moment, a rap at the door made them all jump. Zastra shot across the room and flung it open. The stocky form of Lindarn stood dark against the morning mist. She had never been happier to see anyone in her life. Wordlessly, she dragged him inside. The healer took one look at Etta and dug into his bag and pulled out a small brown bulb that looked like a miniature onion. He asked for a knife and chopped the bulb into tiny pieces and threw them into Zastra’s pan of boiling water. A pungent scent filled the room and Zastra almost gagged. Lindarn carried the steaming pan to Etta’s bedside, careful not to spill any and signalled for her to breathe the fumes. Within moments Etta had stopped wheezing and was able to lie back, weak and shaken, but capable of breathing at last. Dalbric sobbed with joy. Findar, who had been howling the whole time, jumped up onto her bed and flung his arms around Etta’s neck.
‘Careful, Fin.’ Zastra eased her brother away. ‘Let Etta recover.’
Lindarn took the opportunity to examine the patient. He listened to her chest and asked questions in a low voice.
‘Well?’ Dalbric enquired.
‘Miner’s lung,’ was the verdict.
‘But Ma doesn’t work in the mines.’
‘I did once,’ Etta admitted, with a weak cough. ‘Me and your father met working the Helgarth mines. We both needed the money. His family was starving and my first herd of goats had died from foot-rot. But the mines are no place to bring up a child, so when I was pregnant with you, we saved every tocrin to buy our first pair of goats and moved here.’
‘Da.’ Dalbric looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I remember now that he used to cough a lot. Was it the same thing?’
Lindarn nodded. ‘Most likely.’
‘Is there a cure?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Lindarn began to pack up his bag. ‘But the yaya-root infusion will help Etta to breathe better, if used regularly. It was fortunate that I had some on me. It’s the last of my supplies. Lucky too you had some water on the boil.’
‘Somehow, I just knew.’ Hanra flushed with pleasure. ‘Wait ’til I tell Ma how I saved Etta’s life. Maybe I’ve a natural gift for healing.’
‘I’ve prescribed Geort yaya-root before,’ Lindarn remarked. ‘Perhaps you saw your father breathing the steam when you were a littlun?’ Hanra looked crestfallen at such a rational explanation for her apparently miraculous knowledge.
‘Where can we get this yaya-root?’ Dalbric asked.
‘The herbalist in Kirkholme may have some. It’s expensive, mind.’
‘No,’ Etta croaked. ‘We can’t afford it.’
‘Stop it, Ma! Just stop it.’
Etta gaped at her son and Zastra thought it was lucky she was still weak from her ordeal. Dalbric would surely pay later for
raising his voice. When Lindarn left, Dalbric accompanied him to the path. Zastra knew he would be arranging to pay for the healer’s service. If I have to hunt every night until next Moonscross to fill Lindarn’s larder, I will, she vowed. If the healer hadn’t turned up when he did, Etta would certainly be dead. Fin reached up and stroked Etta’s hand. ‘We’ll make you better, won’t we, Layna?’
‘We’ll do everything we can, little man.’
When Dalbric returned, he looked oddly calm. He knelt down beside Etta.
‘When were you going to tell us?’ he asked softly. ‘You must have known what this cough meant, after what happened with Da. Were you ever going to tell me?’
Bright tears leaked down his cheeks. Etta, for once, could find nothing to say. Dalbric stood up, took Zastra’s crossbow from its hook and left the house, not bothering to close the door behind him. That night, he did not return home.
Chapter Nine
Ixendred had been summoned to Grand Marl Thorlberd’s office. As he approached the door, he found his path blocked by a slender young man with dark hair and a thin beard carefully shaped to give definition to his pale features. He was handsome and well aware of the fact, judging by the self-assured way he swept a lock of hair away from his eyes. Ixendred bowed low.
‘My Lord Rastran,’ he said with utmost politeness. The young man stared at him insolently.
‘Hello, Ixy. Come to see Father, have you?’
‘Indeed I have, my Lord.’
Rastran flung open the door.
‘Look who I’ve found skulking in the corridor, Father.’
Ixendred ground his teeth but knew better than to protest. Anyone in Thorlberd’s service knew not to make an enemy of Rastran. He presented his report. Thorlberd frowned.
‘Your conscription activities in the Border Mountains has given us fewer recruits than anticipated.’
Murthen Island: Book Two: Tales of Golmeira Page 4
