Warrior of Golmeira

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘If the rumours about our highmaster are true, we have another reason to be thankful we have no daughters,’ Lichinara remarked. Her husband snorted in disgust

  ‘Don’t pretend you wouldn’t offer up our own child if it would save your skin. Anything to appease those in power.’

  ‘Careful, Orwin. Such resentment is dangerous for someone with no resistance to mindweavers.’

  Podrik returned with a short woman with greying hair. Her eyebrows, or rather eyebrow, for there was no discernible gap between the two, was jet black.

  ‘Morn, there you are,’ Orwin greeted her with relief. ‘Grand Marl Rastran is on his way. We must have a banquet. Spare nothing. Scour the cellars, raid the village. Nothing but the best.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Lichinara clicked her fingers.

  ‘That new kitchen maid of yours, Morn. The pretty little girl with the pig-tails?’

  ‘You mean Ursolina, my lady?’ Morn’s face was unreadable as she turned to her mistress.

  ‘I suppose I do. Get her cleaned up and into her best dress, if she has such a thing. Highmaster Strinverl will appreciate her company.’

  ‘She’s barely fourteen, my lady.’

  ‘And I do not intend to repeat myself.’

  Morn bobbed in a tight-lipped curtsey and she and Podrik were dismissed. Lichinara directed a sly smile towards Gildarn.

  ‘I expect you’ll be on your way? I need not mention your generous present to our illustrious guests. As I understand it, taxes do not apply to gifts.’

  The threat was clear. Leave without your money or be denounced.

  ‘Oh, I think we’ll stay,’ said Nerika. ‘It sounds like an opportunity. And we aren’t in the business of giving gifts.’

  Lichinara flashed her a look that could have turned a lesser woman to ashes. Myka shifted awkwardly from one foot to another. Why were Nerika and Gildarn so keen to risk a meeting with Rastran and Strinverl? Did neither of them understand the terrible danger they were in?

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Zastra had reached the final ascent. A steep pyramid of rock and ice stood between her and the top of the Warrior Mountain. It seemed to stare down at her like a living being, arrogant and untouchable, taunting her for her insignificance. Once the blizzard subsided, she had left the safety of her little cave, saying a reluctant goodbye to her dead Kyrginite companion. Her heartbeat had settled during her enforced rest in the cave, but she resisted the temptation to go faster than a steady walk. By travelling in such a way, she avoided sending her heart into a gallop and no longer had to stop every few strides to rest. In the thin air even such a plodding pace took its toll but she kept moving as long as any light remained, spending bitter nights sheltered behind walls of rock, packing snow around herself to form a rudimentary shelter. The toiling days and freezing nights had drained her of strength. All she wanted to do was lie down. Who could blame her if she rested for a moment? A part of her knew that if she lay down, she would not get back up again. So what if she didn’t? Plenty of people had died because of her. Her death would balance the accounting. It was a tempting thought. But then she pictured Ithgol, under sentence of death unless she returned. Kylen, whose friendship with Zastra had almost lost her the support of her people, left at the mercy of a vastly superior Golmeiran army. She thought of her brother and sister, waiting for her. Findar, who always knew what to say to make her feel better, and Kastara, who was growing so strong, so fierce. A sister to be proud of. Finally, there was Anara. Zastra had wasted their precious time together, numbed by guilt and weighed down with responsibility. There was so much she wanted to say to her mother. She could not give in.

  She began the final climb, using her spear as a walking staff or ice pick according to need. The wind whistled around the peak as if the Warrior was fighting against her, trying to pluck her off, and it took conscious effort to place one foot in front of the other. She took it ten paces at a time. Just ten steps, she told herself, counting them out. And then ten more. Every muscle in her body pleaded with her to stop, but her determination fought back and won. She kept climbing. Her mind kept offering her the chance to stop and rest but she refused to listen to its pleadings, and continued her steady march upwards. She reached the summit as the sun was halfway down to the horizon. The wind at the top was so strong it tore the air from her lungs, and she had to bend her head away from it to breathe. Even so, Zastra took a moment to look around. The view was spectacular. The Warrior was surrounded by the other mountains of the Northern Wastes, their snowy peaks rising above a layer of pure white cloud. To the south, a sliver of green lined the horizon. Sendor, where Kylen was waiting. As she clung to a narrow chimney of rock, her mittened hands dislodged a flat stone, revealing a small compartment that housed a leather pouch. She tucked it inside her mitten, proof she had made it to the top, and replaced it with her fragment of firering. With one last glance at the beauty and desolation of the Northern Wastes, Zastra began the long descent.

  Chapter Sixty

  To Myka’s relief a second letter arrived from Rastran, informing Marl Orwin he had been delayed. It would be two further days before he and his retinue arrived. But still Nerika and Gildarn refused to listen to his pleas.

  ‘I will not leave without completing our mission,’ Nerika said. ‘We have not yet spoken with Orwin.’

  Orwin proved hard to pin down as he spent each day outside the castle, hunting or drilling his militia. In the evenings, he was rumoured to frequent one of the more upmarket brothels in Lyria village. Anything to avoid spending time with his wife. The evening before Rastran was due to arrive, Orwin at last wandered home, stinking of hakash. Gildarn and Myka dealt quickly with the two guards outside his chambers. The militiamen were already dozing and it was a simple matter to tip them into a mindweaver-induced sleep.

  ‘What the…? How did you…?’ Orwin was struggling to don his nightgown. Nerika outlined their purpose. Myka reckoned he’d never seen anyone sober up as quickly as Orwin did once he realised what Nerika was saying.

  ‘You thoughtless imbeciles,’ he hissed. ‘Rastran and Strinverl are bound to read my mind. They’ll see everything and kill us all. You have to leave!’

  ‘I did try to tell them that,’ Myka muttered.

  ‘We’ll go once you’ve pledged to join us,’ said Nerika.

  Orwin made the motion of strangling someone’s neck. ‘Blast you! Even if I say no to you, Rastran will know that my heart is really with Zastra.’

  ‘You want to help?’ Myka asked in disbelief. The mattress creaked as Orwin sat down heavily on his bed.

  ‘I was Leodra’s friend when we were young. Zastra came here after Thorlberd’s ascension, looking for my help, but Lichinara persuaded me to turn her in. The guilt has tormented me ever since. But what can I do? The instant they read my mind, they’ll execute me and put one of Rastran’s toadies in my place.’

  ‘Myka and Gildarn can protect your mind. In return, you will agree to resupply our army.’ Nerika spoke as if the deal was already done.

  ‘Lichinara won’t like that,’ Orwin said.

  ‘Surely that’s even more reason to do it?’

  Orwin emitted a choking sound, something between laughing and crying.

  The next day, Grand Marl Rastran arrived with a retinue of a hundred soldiers and ten mindweavers. A migaradon circled overhead. Orwin and Lichinara greeted them in the courtyard, arm in arm, a picture of wedded bliss. Gildarn positioned himself at Orwin’s elbow. If anyone wondered why Orwin had suddenly acquired a silk merchant for an attendant, no one mentioned it. Only Strinverl, the cadaverous highmaster, seemed at all suspicious. His gaze rested on the supposed merchant for longer than necessary as the introductions were made. Myka, as befitted a servant, watched from the shadows. He saw Gildarn flush under the highmaster’s examination. Gildarn was a strong mindweaver but he was protecting Orwin as well as himself and Strinverl was rumoured to be very powerful indeed. Myka held his breath until Strinverl levered h
imself down from his horse. Rastran sprang elegantly from the back of a dark brown thoroughbred and flung the reins towards an attendant. Gildarn had passed the first test. Myka retreated to the chamber that had been set up for the grand marl’s reception and slipped behind a conveniently placed arras.

  ‘I knew it! You’re a… rebel, aren’t you?’ Myka almost leapt out of his skin. He was not alone.

  ‘Podrik? Is that you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Listening, same as you.’

  ‘You do know Rastran’s a mindweaver? And Strinverl?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m good at hiding. Even my thoughts, if I have to.’

  Myka sent out a probe. Nothing. It was as if the alcove was empty, except for himself, and yet he could feel the warmth of Podrik’s body beside him.

  ‘Nobody ever thinks a… cripple like me could have talents,’ Podrik said forlornly. ‘Never even been tested. Waste of time, they said.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘Oh yes, I was born lucky,’ Podrik remarked even more forlornly. ‘One good eye and one good arm. What’s to complain about?’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Shh, they’re coming.’

  Orwin and Lichinara, smiles fixed on their faces, led their visitors into the chamber, Gildarn following as part of Orwin’s train. Through the narrow gap between the wall and the arras, Myka saw Strinverl lean into Gildarn and whisper something. He was too far away to hear what the highmaster said or make out Gildarn’s brief reply.

  ‘Some spiced wine, grand marl?’ Lichinara took a wine-filled decanter of cut crystal and poured a generous amount into a goblet. Myka would lay bets it was the first time she’d ever helped anyone to a drink. Rastran swirled the wine and sniffed.

  ‘I am looking forward to the banquet tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘I hear your cook is the best in all three of my domains. If that’s true, I might just steal her from you.’

  Myka felt Podrik stiffen beside him.

  ‘I am sure you will not be disappointed,’ said Lichinara smoothly. ‘We pride ourselves on our hospitality, don’t we Orwin dearest?’

  ‘Yes, my love,’ said Orwin.

  ‘You can cut the act,’ said Rastran. ‘I know what a fake marriage looks like. I don’t even need mindweaving to see how much you detest each other. But that’s your own business, as long as you are loyal to me. You heard about Marl Cruskin, of course?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lichinara smoothly. ‘It is reassuring to have such a strong, assertive grand marl leading us. I have great hopes for the future.’

  Rastran narrowed his eyes. Lichinara reddened under his gaze.

  ‘You’re a practical woman, Lichinara. I like that,’ Rastran said with a smirk. He turned to Gildarn. ‘She thinks you are smugglers.’

  ‘She’s mistaken,’ said Gildarn smoothly. Myka sensed Rastran’s probe and added his power to bolster Gildarn’s defences.

  ‘Hmm. I will look at your consignment once we’ve finished the loyalty testing. The honour of outfitting your grand marl will be sufficient payment, I’m sure.’

  ‘Of course,’ Gildarn said with a bow.

  ‘Strinverl, I want everyone in the castle probed. Work through the night if necessary. I wish to enjoy my banquet in the knowledge that any traitors have been dealt with.’

  A young serving girl presented herself to Lichinara. Her face and hands had been scrubbed clean and her hair was brushed to a shine.

  ‘Bow to our honoured guests, Ursolina,’ Lichinara instructed. The girl dropped into a low bow and stayed there until Lichinara pulled her up.

  ‘Ursolina will be Highmaster Strinverl’s personal serving girl at the feast tomorrow.’

  Strinverl circled round the girl. ‘Delightful,’ he said.

  ‘Grand marl, perhaps you would also like to choose a companion? We have many pretty boys and girls in our employ. Or I can send out to the villages if there is nothing to your taste within our humble walls.’

  Rastran sipped his wine. ‘I don’t consort with commoners. My tastes are more refined.’

  ‘We meant no offence,’ Orwin broke in quickly. Rastran leaned towards Lichinara and inhaled deeply.

  ‘A delightful perfume you’re wearing,’ he murmured, resting his finger on her bare shoulder. Lichinara didn’t move, but Myka noted the hem of her gown was trembling.

  ‘M… My lord may command as he wishes.’ Lichinara sounded as if someone was tightening a noose around her neck.

  Rastran stepped back and laughed, long and loud.

  ‘Relax. I’d hardly be interested in a wrinkly old crone like you.’ He retired to the chamber that had been prepared for him, still chuckling at his little joke. Lichinara was left standing, stock still, her neck and face turning red.

  ‘Careful, my dear,’ Orwin murmured.

  ‘Careful?’ She rounded on him. ‘If I didn’t have such a spineless jellyfish for a husband…’

  Myka hoped she was wrong about the state of Orwin’s spine. If he let something slip, they were all done for. But watching their host cower beneath his wife’s onslaught, he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure at all.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Brutila woke from a restless sleep. Her brazier had died down to leave faintly glowing embers. It was still night. She sensed a disturbance nearby and pushed out with her mind. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human. Something clawed at her consciousness, eager and yet fearful. Instinct told her to back away, but curiosity won and she opened her mind a fraction.

  Come, gather, hunt! Scrittals. She joined with one as it padded across the snow, part of a large pack. Ahead was the scent of Kyrgs, a hundredfold stronger and more pungent than Brutila’s human senses could detect. They were near the encampment. Brutila withdrew her contact with a shudder. Scrittals were usually scavengers but something was driving them to attack. It must be another mindweaver. Findar, perhaps? The lad could communicate with animals, she’d seen the signs. But why would he do such a thing? There were screams from the edge of the settlement. Brutila risked another foray into the minds of the animals.

  Bite them, chase them! She sensed the unseen order as the screams grew closer. The scrittal pack reached the rondavels and split up. Some scrittals dived beneath the cloth doors, others scrabbled up the stone walls and wriggled past the stretched skins that served as windows.

  Who’s there? The sharp question echoed in her head. Whoever was driving the scrittals had detected her presence. Brutila instantly broke the connection but their brief touch would be enough for the mindweaver to locate her. Had they come for her? She immediately dismissed that idea. No one cared enough about her to mount a rescue, certainly not Rastran. More likely he’d sent the mindweaver to kill her. She strengthened her defensive walls.

  ‘Well, look who it is!’ A male voice echoed round her small prison. Above her, a curly-haired shadow blocked the stars.

  ‘Florian? Or is it Fester?’ She recalled Rastran’s favourites with distaste. Arrogant little boys.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be keeping Anara prisoner, not the other way around?’ Whichever twin it was gave a mocking laugh.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We need to find Anara.’

  ‘Why? What do you want with her?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘I’m Thorlberd’s representative here. Everything is my business.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Thorlberd’s dead. New ruler, new rules. Besides, it doesn’t look like you have much influence.’

  ‘Let me out and I’ll take you to her.’

  There was some whispering.

  ‘You’d better hurry,’ she said impatiently. ‘Your little distraction won’t last long.’

  ‘Oh, I think the scrittals will keep the savages busy for a while, but I suppose you could save us the effort of searching all those roundhouses.’

  There was a grating noise and the grid disappeared. The end of a rope landed in the embers of her brazier. Brutila grabbed it be
fore it could catch fire.

  ‘Don’t think of trying anything. Lord Rastran warned us about you. Where’s the other one? I thought there were two of you?’

  ‘Higina’s dead.’ Brutila pulled herself out of the well. The settlement was in uproar. Light streamed from open doorways and torches flashed back and forth. Someone was barking orders, endeavouring to quell the panic.

  ‘This way.’ Brutila’s legs wobbled after days of disuse. Her first thought had been to make a break for freedom, but with legs this weak she’d never be able to move fast enough. She crouched down to catch her breath.

  ‘What are your orders?’ she asked, stalling.

  ‘Never mind that. Just take us to Anara.’

  Brutila was debating whether to obey when a slight figure ran towards them. Anara, you fool! You’ve run straight into their trap.

  ‘Brutila! I was coming to find you. I knew the scrittals would frighten—’ Anara came to a halt. ‘How did you get out?’

  ‘Is this her?’ Florian asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s her,’ Brutila said reluctantly.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Anara looked in astonishment as an iron manacle flew through the air and snapped around her wrist. Another attached itself round Brutila’s. A chain linked them together.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, Florian,’ Fester whispered urgently. ‘Someone is trying to calm the scrittals.’ He glared at Brutila. So, it’s him that speaks with animals.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ she said. ‘It’ll be her son, Findar.’

  ‘Brutila, don’t let them do this,’ pleaded Anara, but Brutila had made her decision. The Kyrgs would surely kill her if they caught her. They wouldn’t care that the plan hadn’t been hers. Besides, this was her chance to get away from this hateful place.

  Kastara shuddered as a dozen white creatures rammed their heads against her invisible barrier.

  ‘Findar, can’t you do something?’ she cried. Her brother was standing next to her, in fixed concentration.