Warrior of Golmeira

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘Lord Justyn and Lady Zastra worked on this plan together,’ he said defensively. ‘And you dare – a Sendoran – that is to say – of course, I know Lady Zastra left you in charge, but surely you do not dare to criticise?’

  ‘I have no problem with the plan so far as it goes. A battery on the northern headland and a fortress at the landing site to the south are exactly what is required. But we must have another battery on the southern headland.’

  ‘Lord Justyn did suggest the very same,’ Pitwyn admitted. ‘But the ground is too wet – our heavy catapults would sink into the sand. If there was to be an attack – let us hope that there is not, for without Lady Zastra to save us – I do not wish to – she suggested that one of the ships, perhaps the Wind of Golmeira itself, could provide the second battery.’

  ‘We cannot spare any of our warships for such a task. We have only four, one of which is a converted trader and they are needed to defend the bay. I wish we had three times as many. It is the worst defensive position I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘What do you recommend?’ asked Pitwyn stiffly. ‘Lady Zastra insisted I give you every assistance while she was away, and I will honour her command – even though all I hear is criticism and griping. It’s not my place to determine who is deserving – I am her humble servant, and so, I suppose, I must now be yours.’

  Kylen was touched to learn that, despite the bitterness of their parting, Zastra had left such instructions.

  ‘I am not blaming you or Zastra for the landscape,’ Kylen said, striving for patience. ‘I will think on the problem. In the meantime, I’m worried about that other landing site. You are telling me we haven’t yet completed the foundations of the new fortress?’

  ‘Alas, no. Despite my constant reminders – the quarry master is quite an obstinate fellow. Of course, there is huge demand for stone – arguments amongst many parties – houses, bunkhouses and there’s also the new jetty on Mendoraz.’

  ‘Can’t we increase the supply?’

  ‘As to the quarry, now that we have more pickaxes – metal has been so difficult – you recall the shipment of iron the Obala stole from Southland? Right under the noses of – No? You were away, I recall – another secret mission, not even I was informed. However, now the iron mine is open, and of course the forges – here, let me show you the list. Four working forges and a new batch of pickaxes just cast – fuel is the only – oh, that reminds me, I must see to the new charcoal beds. What was I saying? Oh yes, now we have enough tools, the only way to increase the supply of stone is with more people, but alas we are already stretched thinner than a gossamer shawl – I remember Lady Grinsilla had one, as pretty as a – ahem, what with the new works on Mendoraz – Lady Zastra chose the name you know – whether it is deserved or not is for others to—’

  ‘Get those pickaxes to the quarry,’ Kylen interjected bluntly. ‘I will see to the rest.’

  She sent word to Beregan to bring a hundred soldiers to the quarry and headed toward the southern landing site. She walked between the rows of cabins that ran along the shoreline. They were all square and of similar size, yet each had been distinguished with personal touches. Clothes flapped on rope lines slung between bamboo poles and plants flowered in clay pots, adding splashes of colour. In the shade cast by one cabin, a tame moccasin bird, one of the many new species they had discovered on the island, strutted about in a bamboo cage. Many of the Far Islanders’ cabins had smokers attached that gave off the lingering scent of drying fish as she walked past. A group of barefooted children swerved between the homes, playing a game of chase. Among them, she recognised Migala, the girl she had brought from Bractaris Castle. She was plumper now and laughing with the others. Kylen tried not to picture what Thorlberd’s army would do to these fragile homes. She found the cut-through and followed it to the site of the fortress. Vingrod, a Golmeiran scientist, whose previous achievements included discovering how to make scale-tip arrowheads, was managing the project and she showed Kylen the plans. A buttressed wall across the channel, with a square tower jutting forward at the centre – a simple but effective design. As yet, nothing was visible above ground.

  ‘The footing here is not good. We had to dig a long way down to reach anything solid,’ Vingrod explained.

  ‘Let’s use that to our advantage. A trench between us and the sea would slow down invaders. In such soft ground, they would become easy targets. Two would be even better.’

  ‘We cannot spare the workers. And if we don’t get more stone, we’ll struggle to complete the fortress by Lady Zastra’s deadline.’

  ‘I will get you more stone,’ Kylen promised, ‘more people too, but in return I want everything finished by the next Moonscross.’

  She left Vingrod scratching her head and jogged across a swathe of cleared forest towards the quarry. Between jagged tree stumps, a herd of goats was grazing on grasses and palms that flourished now that trees no longer blocked out the light. Thanks to Pitwyn, Kylen knew they had three herds of goats, bred from hardy Sendoran and Borders stock, providing milk from which they made cheese as well as wool for clothes. Beyond the decimated forest, the quarry formed a gaping wound in the side of the smaller mountain. Beregan was waiting with her hundred soldiers. Moments later, Radogan arrived at the head of a line of porters, all carrying bundles of pickaxes and other tools. Pitwyn was certainly efficient.

  ‘My soldiers are curious,’ said Beregan. ‘Is the quarry in danger of attack?’

  ‘Until we complete the fortifications, this island remains vulnerable. We need more rock.’

  ‘You mean for us to work like slaves?’

  ‘No one here is a slave. You all chose to be soldiers. That means obeying orders. Besides, a soldier under siege is only as strong as her fortress. Let’s get to it. We’ve no time to waste.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The summit of the First Born was lost in clouds of billowing smoke as Zastra and her companions reached its slopes, the air acrid and stinking of rotting eggs. It was uninviting terrain, but for once even Morvain did not suggest turning back. They had found an exit from the underground passageways as their last candle was guttering, following an underground river out onto a plain of broken sandstone, where leafless trees with scarred and twisted trunks struggled up from cracks spotted with faded lichen. Between the skeleton trees, white-stemmed scrub bushes and prickly succulents broke up the pale landscape. The terrain seemed barren, especially once they left the river behind, but Ithgol had scented out food and water. He levered up rocks to reveal lizards hiding from the sun and extracted handfuls of fat grubs from beneath banks of dried moss. Pockets of tiny yellow flowers sprouted from tiny cracks. Zastra wouldn’t have given them a second thought, but Ithgol took a knife and prised them up to reveal starchy bulbs that proved sweet and satisfying. Polina and Morvain looked faintly sick at the prospect of toasted moss-grub but the younger mindweavers took to their new diet with enthusiasm.

  ‘These are better than clams,’ Zenarbia said, sucking the flesh from a grub as she skewered another and held it over their campfire.

  ‘It would be improved with a touch of salt,’ Morvain remarked, after a tentative nibble. ‘But they seem safe to eat. We must make the best of what we have.’ The next day, Ithgol ground some bark from a shrub with reddish leaves into a pot of grubs, giving them a tangy, peppery taste. Morvain smacked his lips.

  ‘I must say, Ithgol, you have surprised me. Where did you acquire such myriad skills?’

  ‘You grow up in the Northern Wastes, you learn to make use of everything,’ the Kyrg had replied bluntly.

  The dark slopes of the First Born looked as if they might challenge even Ithgol’s talent for forage. They waded through powdery ash, coughing away flakes raised by their footsteps, before breaking out onto tar-like rock frozen in fat folds, like burned syrup that had set whilst being poured.

  ‘How can people live here?’ Morvain mused. ‘How do they build houses on this rock? The soles of my boots will be quite shredded.’
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br />   ‘We are being in the Outlands,’ Urbek remarked. ‘Even ko-venteela do not be living here. Let us be hurrying.’

  The ground shuddered and the sky began to darken, even though it was not yet noon.

  ‘What was that?’ cried Gwylla in alarm.

  ‘The Mother is restless.’ Urbek quickened his step. A deep growl rumbled up from the centre of the mountain. Zenarbia began to run.

  ‘Wait!’ ordered Zastra. ‘Stay together.’ The ground trembled again and despite her entreaties the group began to scatter. Flakes of ash drifted down like dirty snowflakes. Zastra dragged Gwylla and Waylin after Urbek. Lorzan and Hylaz closed on her. Ithgol, as always, was by her elbow.

  There was a percussive boom and a large boulder bounced down the slope barely ten paces behind them.

  ‘Look out!’ cried Justyn, running towards them, pursued by a wave of smoke that seethed and roiled down the mountainside. Zastra braced herself as the wave broke over them plunging them into a smoky grey twilight. She tightened her grip on Waylin and Gwylla.

  ‘Laykhina, cant-si!’ cried Urbek. Mother, save us. Zastra’s Aliterran had improved enough during the days spent underground to understand his plea.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Zastra coughed, but it was impossible to see anything until a gust of wind thinned out the smoke. Molten rock snaked down the mountainside in glowing rivulets. If they didn’t move quickly, they would be cut off. Zastra led Waylin and Gwylla down and across the slope, checking that Urbek and the Sendorans were following. A u-shaped channel ran down the mountain, directly in their path.

  ‘Across. Now!’ Zastra cried. The channel was deep and the sides almost vertical, but the rough, tar-like rock provided plenty of purchase. Lorzan and Hylaz were first across, turning to pull the others to safety.

  ‘Thank the Mother,’ Urbek cried, as molten rock began to drop into the top of the half-pipe. Zastra cupped her hands round her mouth, trying to make herself heard above the anguished roars of the mountain.

  ‘Pol! Morvain! Zenarbia!’ Another gust of hot wind cleared more smoke and she saw them, further up the slope, caught between two streams of flowing rock. Another wave of dense smoke engulfed them. They would be blind, unable to see their way out of the trap.

  ‘Stay here,’ she cried, slipping back into the channel so fast she scraped the skin from her palms. She clambered back up the other side, coughing as she sucked in a papery flake of ash. As she pulled the neck of her shirt over her nose, a solid presence loomed beside her.

  ‘Ithgol! I told you to stay.’

  ‘Do not waste breath.’ He strode into the dense black fog. Zastra followed. The air grew hotter and the smoke made her eyes water. The bubbling lava river to their right appeared as a red glow beneath the ever-thickening smoke. A shadowy form staggered out of the darkness. Zastra reached out and grabbed it.

  ‘Zastra!’ It was Polina. The mindweaver doubled over, coughing. ‘Thank the stars. I… sensed Ithgol. Followed… his mind.’

  ‘The others. Where are they?’

  Zastra could barely make out Polina’s face, although she was right in front of her. The First Born groaned again.

  ‘Close. I’m joined with Morvain, but we lost Zenarbia.’ Polina’s voice cracked with panic. Ithgol snuffled, then dived into the black soup and emerged carrying the senseless young mindweaver. Zastra grabbed Polina’s hand and dragged her towards the heat of the molten river. The mindweaver flinched backwards.

  ‘Trust me!’ Zastra shouted and Polina allowed herself to be led forward. Zastra hoped Morvain was still following Polina’s mental instructions. She felt as if she was being toasted in front of a fire, but she resisted the urge to back away. The heat of the molten stream was their only guide to safety. She followed it until they emerged from the cloud of smoke and ash. Ithgol still carried Zenarbia, his face dirty with black sweat. Morvain’s hair was powdered with grey ash. He looked twenty years older. There was another ominous rumble and smoking cinders rained down on them, clattering against the hard ground.

  ‘Ow!’ cried Polina as a burning cinder landed on her shoulder. Zastra battered the cinder away with her sleeve and smothered the scorched material before it could catch, all the while ushering the others down the slope. They reached the top of the half pipe, but its base was now filled with bubbling lava. On the far side, Hylaz and the others cowered beneath an overhanging fold in the rock.

  ‘Keep going down,’ Zastra coughed. ‘We may be able to outrun it.’

  The leading edge of the seething red river was only a dozen paces below them. Zenarbia revived in the fresher air, coughing into life. Ithgol set her down gently.

  Crack!

  A fissure opened in front of them and a fountain of golden rock spewed into the air, sending them scurrying back up the slope. The fountain died, but lava bubbled up from the jagged tear in the mountainside and spread out to form a steaming lake across their path. They were trapped.

  A high-pitched trilling cut through the noise. A man with mottled skin, wearing only short trousers and what looked like a quiver slung across his shoulder, loomed high above them, perched atop a metal pole. At regular points down the pole, narrow prongs stuck out on each side. The man was standing on one of these, using it like a stirrup. The pole bent towards them. Just as he looked about to fall off, the man sprang down with the ease and grace of a courtier, and landed lightly beside them. Around his neck hung a metal pendant, flames inside a circle.

  ‘Al-si!’ he cried. Another warbling cry was followed by the appearance of a woman on the other side of the half-pipe. She planted her pole on top of a column of rock that rose out of the deadly river and levered herself across to join them. She, too, was half-naked and wore a pendant around her neck. Ko-venteela, thought Zastra.

  ‘Al-si,’ the woman repeated urgently.

  ‘She says to come with them,’ said Ithgol and Zastra finally recognised the Aliterran words. Their pronunciation was different to Urbek’s. The molten river was rising fast and the air was so hot it scorched the back of Zastra’s throat. The man planted his pole on the same column the woman had used and took a running jump. Somehow, he contrived to stop the pole in the middle of his journey and then jumped off onto the top of the column. He was surrounded by lava on all sides. Zastra marvelled at his balance and control. The woman said something Zastra couldn’t make out.

  ‘She will demonstrate,’ interpreted Ithgol. The woman took a short run up, planted the base of the pole on the rock column and traversed. As she did, the man grabbed the bottom of the pole and helped it on its way. They repeated the demonstration on the way back.

  ‘They can’t be serious!’ Zenarbia cried as the woman offered Zastra the pole. Zastra gave it to the young mindweaver.

  ‘You first, Zenarbia.’

  The woman placed Zenarbia’s hands halfway up the pole and patted one of the stirrups. She jabbered something.

  ‘What is she saying?’ asked Zenarbia, her voice rising in panic.

  ‘Put your foot there,’ Ithgol informed her.

  Zenarbia and the woman ran together and planted the pole by the man’s feet. The woman shoved hard as Zenarbia put her foot onto the stirrup. The young mindweaver rose into the air with a cry of surprise, mingled with alarm. The man grabbed hold of the pole just beneath her feet and levered her safely across. Morvain went next. Halfway across, the pole swayed sickeningly to one side.

  ‘He’ll fall in!’ cried Polina, as Morvain hung for a moment above the bubbling lava. Somehow, the wiry man pulled him straight, his muscles trembling with the strain as he deposited him next to Zenarbia.

  ‘Pol, you next,’ Zastra said, as lava bubbled towards the top of the half pipe.

  ‘You are more important,’ Pol protested.

  ‘No one is more important. Go. That’s an order.’ Polina made it across safely. The lava was now barely an inch below the lip. The woman retrieved the pole and thrust it towards Ithgol. He shook his head.

  ‘Zastra first.’

 
; The woman thrust the pole at him again.

  ‘There is another way,’ she said in Aliterran. She pointed at Zastra. ‘She can go, but you are too heavy.’

  ‘Do as she says, Ithgol,’ said Zastra firmly. ‘We haven’t time to argue.’

  Ithgol reluctantly did as she commanded. The woman planted the pole and shoved, but despite the efforts of both ko-venteela, they couldn’t get Ithgol up into the air. As he crashed back to the ground, his left toe dipped into the lava stream. He hopped back, yanking his boot off with a howl. A piece of crust was attached to the toe-end. The woman knocked it off with the end of her pole, leaving a smoking hole. Ithgol wafted away the smoke and then put his boot back on. His toe poked through the burned leather.

  ‘Again,’ the woman said, nodding at Zastra. ‘You help.’

  Zastra added her efforts to those of the woman and together they heaved Ithgol into the air. The man scrambled up the pole as it reached the vertical and he and Ithgol landed safely on the other side, just as the column of rock disappeared beneath the flowing lava. A glowing globule clung to the base of the pole as the man retrieved it, turning black as it cooled. The woman grabbed Zastra’s arm and pulled her away from the overflowing half pipe and towards the steaming lava lake that had spread out of the new fissure.

  ‘Jai fuenshu-ey.’ Zastra translated her words as “dance the fire”, but that didn’t help her understand what she was supposed to do. A black crust had formed on the lava lake, broken up by glowing circles of naked molten rock. The air above these golden circles shimmered with the intense heat. The woman poked at the crust with her pole. It cracked, and steam hissed upwards.

  ‘Mul,’ she said. Bad. She poked another, darker section. The crust did not break.

  ‘Zha.’ Good. She placed her foot on the firm section of crust and began to hop across the lake. Right foot, left foot, and right again, she skimmed across the black surface like a water fly. It looked like an elaborate dance, and Zastra suddenly understood what dance the fire meant. For a moment, fear held her motionless, but the First Born roared again, and she set off across the lava lake, placing her feet in exactly the same places as the other woman. She trod as lightly as possible, knowing that if she broke through the thin crust, she would be ankle deep in burning rock. On her last step, the crust cracked beneath foot, but she was off and onto solid rock before the surface split open. She breathed with relief, but her ordeal was not yet over. They were further down the mountain, but the half pipe still separated them from the others. It had narrowed, and the lava stream flowed more quickly. Too fast for a crust to form. There would be no fire dancing here and the channel was still too wide to jump. A tiny movement of air sent heat searing towards them and Zastra felt her eyebrows crinkle. The woman grinned, her teeth white through a face blackened with soot. She banged the base of the pole on the lip of the pipe and gestured to the other side.