Realm of Mindweavers: Book one: Tales of Golmeira

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘It’s your tailor what should be sent to jail, matey,’ muttered a woman who was standing just behind Zastra. There were a few muted chuckles.

  Finton extended his arms outwards in an expansive gesture.

  ‘Come, let us work together. If you help us, you will be well rewarded. We have the opportunity to build a new era of glory and prosperity for the land of Golmeira. Join us in our quest.’

  ‘Work together, he says,’ snorted the woman behind Zastra. ‘Somehow I don’t reckon all this glory and prosperity will be for us working people. We’ll have to suffer for it, but it’ll still be the rich ones as’ll get the benefit.’

  A general rumble of discontent spread through the crowd as if in agreement with these sentiments.

  ‘Traitorous flekk!’ cried another voice from somewhere within the crowd.

  ‘Who said that?’ shouted Finton, looking around nervously. ‘Whoever said that will be caught and punished.’

  The Prefect gestured a pair of large Kyrgs into the crowd to seek out the trouble-maker. The murmurings of the crowd increased, the body of people seething and gathering, as if a storm was beginning to break over a choppy sea. The Kyrgs re-appeared, dragging a teenage lad.

  ‘It weren’t me!’ the boy protested, shaking in fear. ‘Honest, it weren’t me!’

  ‘That’s right,’ an anonymous voice shouted from the crowd. ‘The lad said nothing.’

  ‘Quiet!’ shouted Finton tremulously. ‘We do not make mistakes. Take him to the dungeons.’

  The rumble of the crowd increased and it pushed towards the brightly dressed Prefect. He turned quickly and scurried back into the safety of the City Hall. Sustained jeers were aimed at his receding back, but the appearance of archers at the windows of the square building quietened the crowd and it began to disperse. A number of people peeled off the back and headed away from the square. Zastra joined them, pondering what she had heard. She and Findar would have to leave Riverford as soon as possible. It was not safe for them, now that they were considered traitors. Her reverie was broken by the familiar sound of her father’s name.

  ‘I’d no particular liking of Leodra, or any of them Grand Marls,’ a short, stubby man was saying to a couple of friends, ‘but I don’t agree with this business. Bringing those Kyrg savages to do their dirty work. You know old Yoland, the baker? All he did was break curfew to get his wife some medicine and refused to stop for those Kyrginite thugs. Now he’s been locked up as a traitor.’

  ‘And that flekk Finton,’ piped up another man, ‘last week, he was just a secretary, hated by everyone for being a real stickler for protocol. Now some idiot has made him Prefect.’

  ‘Aye. I heard it were him as ordered Lord Miraval’s guards to open the Westgate and let in the Kyrgs. What with that migaradon, the guards had no chance. Some good men and women amongst them too, as well as Miraval himself. To think we have a lousy backstabber ruling the roost like a cock hen.’

  ‘Hush,’ whispered the third man, casting Zastra a suspicious look. ‘We could all be locked up for saying such things. Think of your wife and littluns.’ The three men disappeared into the maze of alleyways.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It had not been a good day for Grindarl, newly promoted Lieutenant of the Bractarian guards. Not only had they had trouble with one of the migaradons which had, for no good reason, flown into the northwest tower and caused considerable damage as well as nearly throwing its rider, but worse, there was still no news of Leodra’s children. It was more than a week since they had slipped out, in spite of the gatehouse guards and mindweavers who had been ordered to apprehend them, and he was due to report to the Grand Marl within the hour. Thorlberd would not be happy with the lack of progress. Grindarl had earned his promotion in the fight for Golmer Castle, where his cunning plan to lace the drinks of Leodra’s guards during Rastran’s birthday party had considerably weakened resistance to the coup. He had no intention of losing out now; he would have to find those children. Surely then a further promotion would be forthcoming. A chiming bell interrupted his thoughts, indicating that the time had come for him to make his report. He went to the Grand Marl’s offices with some trepidation.

  Thorlberd was in deep conversation with a group of ministers. A grey figure was seated in the far corner of the room, half obscured in shadow. Grindarl squinted, but could not make out who the seated figure was. Thorlberd dismissed his attendants and turned his intense gaze upon the lieutenant.

  ‘Well, Grindarl?’

  ‘No word as yet, my Lord. We’ve searched everywhere within ten leagues of Golmer Castle, with no luck. The huge reward has not helped. Indeed lots of people have been wasting our time by turning in their own families and friends. We have investigated hundreds of children, but all have been accounted for.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ bellowed the new Grand Marl. ‘We must find those children. I made this clear to you – I will not tolerate failure. It seems that you are not up to the task.’

  He glanced towards the seated figure. A woman, strongly built, with cropped hair speckled in various shades of grey, moved towards the light with the menace and constrained grace of a she-caralyx. Grindarl gasped involuntarily. A fearful scar ran across the woman’s face, from the right ear to the mouth, an icy white track against an already pale backdrop. The woman grinned at Grindarl’s response. She was well used to such reactions. The mouth and scar melded together, giving the appearance of a lopsided grin across the face, but the mirthless smile did not reach the pale grey eyes, which were cold and amphibious. Too late, Grindarl became aware of a flash of metal swiftly followed by a searing pain in his chest. The shock barely had time to register in his eyes before his life was extinguished. The grey woman stepped back, cleaning her knife, taking great care to avoid staining her hands, which were protected by gloves of soft grey leather.

  ‘Good, Brutila,’ said Thorlberd, looking with disgust at the heap in front of him. ‘I’ve allowed this to slip for too long. Findar and Kastara must be found. They will be key to our success. The blood tests revealed that both twins will have great power.’

  ‘Blood tests?’

  ‘One of my scientists recently developed a test that can determine whether a child will be a mindweaver, even before they reach the age at which abilities are manifest. It requires a small sample of blood, which I was able to obtain from the twins, although Zastra and her friend nearly caught me in the act, the babies screamed so much from the pin prick.’

  ‘What will you do with them?’

  ‘When we find them, we will keep them close and supervise their education. As they grow up, they will think it natural to join us. They will become our strongest allies. However we must get them now, before others can teach them to hate us.’

  ‘And what about the girl, Zastra?’ asked the woman in a husky tone.

  ‘She must be eliminated to maintain order,’ said Thorlberd. ‘She could act as a rallying point for resistance. I take no pleasure in it, but unfortunately it is necessary. All my resources are at your disposal. You shall carry the title of master at arms and I shall give you my personal seal.’

  Brutila smirked. ‘You should have asked me in the first place, rather than this imbecile,’ she said, nudging the body of Grindarl with her foot. ‘I hope you don’t doubt me, Thorlberd.’

  ‘Your loyalty and efficiency I have no concerns about. However, I thought your personal hatred of my brother might cloud your judgement. Remember, I want the twins alive.’

  ‘You should not have denied me my request to dispose of Leodra personally. I would have taken much pleasure in it.’

  ‘I owed it to my brother to allow him a dignified death,’ said Thorlberd.

  ‘Sentimentality is weakness, my Lord. We’ve always agreed on that.’

  ‘Do not mistake my words for weakness, Brutila. I did what had to be done.’

  ‘And that pathetic little Anara too?’

  Thorlberd gave her a dark look.

  ‘Yes,’ he said
bluntly. ‘I suggest you leave before I lose patience and arrange for you to share Grindarl’s fate. You have your orders.’

  Dismissed, the grey haired woman left to stalk her prey. She found Strinverl, the new highmaster of mindweavers, entering his rooms without ceremony. The gaunt man jumped up as she entered, but the sight of her scarred face stopped any protest at the intrusion before he could utter it.

  ‘Any news of the brats?’ asked Brutila, not bothering with the niceties of introductions. Strinverl shook his head nervously.

  ‘Not a whisper in the essence has been detected since Thorlberd’s victory.’

  ‘How can it be that the entire body of mindweavers cannot find two babies and a child no taller than my chest?’

  ‘I thought Grindarl was in charge of this operation,’ protested Strinverl.

  ‘Not any more,’ Brutila said with a smile of satisfaction.

  Strinverl’s eyes opened wide at the sight of the terrible, lopsided grimace.

  ‘As you know, the power only works over short distances,’ he stammered, ‘half a league at most. It’s not simply a case of closing my eyes and picking them out. We have mindweavers stationed all over Golmeira. I’m sure they will find them soon.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ barked Brutila. ‘I begin to wonder where your loyalties lie. You were a member of Leodra’s council for many years after all.’

  ‘Do not presume to question me,’ retorted Strinverl. ‘It was me who disabled half the mindweavers on the council, me who was Thorlberd’s inside man and me who disposed of Teona, our over-promoted highmaster.’ His eyes glinted with pleasure at the memory.

  ‘Once a traitor, always a traitor, the saying goes,’ remarked Brutila dryly. ‘Perhaps I’d better check?’

  Ignoring his cry of protest, she dug into his mind. His defences were weak and his thoughts were easy to steal. Like many people with great mindweaving abilities, Strinverl had relatively little resistance to the entry of others. Arrogant and complacent, never imagining that anyone would dare to challenge them. It was no wonder the council had fallen so easily.

  Brutila continued to rummage long after she had confirmed his loyalty to Thorlberd – or at least loyalty for as long as Strinverl gained by the arrangement. Then she released him. ‘Just what I expected,’ she snorted.

  Strinverl staggered back as if he had been punched.

  ‘I have never…’ he began, but Brutila raised a grey-gloved hand. His protest died in his mouth.

  ‘Now, what explanation do you have for your current lack of success?’ she drawled, as if they were at a polite tea party, with no hint of the violence she had just visited upon him.

  He smoothed back his few remaining strands of hair in a feeble attempt to regain his dignity.

  ‘Of course the babies are too young to have conscious thoughts and so cannot be detected,’ he said. ‘Zastra was always a resourceful child and when she took the test she demonstrated some ability to resist mindweaving. Not enough to protect her against even the weakest of us, unless…’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless someone taught her. If one of the council took it upon themselves to train her, she might have developed the skills to evade us. But it would take a great deal of study to achieve such a feat. I can hardly imagine that any offspring of Leodra, that weak and insignificant man, could manage such a thing. Especially a mere talentless child.’

  ‘Your lack of imagination may have already cost us,’ said Brutila. ‘We still have some members of Leodra’s council imprisoned in the dungeon – those who were not killed. I shall enjoy paying them a visit.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Zastra hurried along the streets of Riverford, plucking up courage to ask a passer-by for directions to the Eastgate. She was anxious to leave this dark, forbidding city whose tall buildings seemed to be closing over her head like a fist of stone fingers. With nowhere to spend the night, she did not want to be caught out by the curfew. She travelled down a steep cobbled street, hesitating as she reached a fork. A gang of Kyrgs was heading towards them on the left-hand route, so she took the other. She had gone barely thirty paces, when, without warning, she was clattered by a young lad, dark skinned, with a head of tight curls, who had rushed headlong out of one of the houses lining the street. They crashed to the ground in a heap.

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered the boy. He scrambled up and ran off down the hill, then darting to his left and into a narrow alleyway.

  Findar had been woken by the bump and began to bawl with some vigour. Two angry looking Kyrgs emerged from the same house as the boy. One of them grabbed Zastra roughly.

  ‘Got you!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Wait, Tholgar, that’s not the one,’ said the other Kyrg, looking closely at Zastra. ‘Where did he go, boy?’

  When Zastra did not respond, she found herself shoved roughly against the wall of the house behind her.

  ‘Tell us now and we’ll let you go. Otherwise, it’s to the dungeons,’ the one called Tholgar said menacingly. Findar wailed at an even higher pitch. Zastra looked around her, thinking quickly.

  ‘That way,’ she said, pointing up the hill in the opposite direction to where the boy had gone.

  ‘If you’re lying, you’ll be sorry,’ snarled Tholgar, gripping her hard by the shoulder and grinding her bones together. ‘Show me where they went.’

  As he pulled her along, Zastra faked a limp, slowing him down.

  ‘I can’t go any faster,’ she cried plaintively, refusing to speed up. Findar was crying with the violence only babies can muster. Zastra did not try and calm him. If they could be really irritating, perhaps the Kyrgs would just let them go. Zastra dragged even more, faking a coughing fit.

  ‘I can’t… go… on. Must… stop,’ she whined.

  ‘Show me where he went,’ insisted Tholgar.

  Zastra pointed up towards a narrow passage about forty paces away.

  ‘There,’ she cried. ‘I saw him go that way.’ She sank to the ground in a dead weight.

  Tholgar snarled with frustration

  ‘Oh, let’s just leave it,’ said the other Kyrg.

  ‘No – the boy insulted us. I cannot let that pass. Come on, leave these two, they’ll just get in the way.’

  The Kyrgs released Zastra and headed for the passageway. She turned and hurried back down the hill. Hearing a cry, she glanced over her shoulder. Tholgar was running towards her. He did not look pleased. Zastra broke into a run, skidding on the greasy cobbles as she turned and ducked down the same dark alley that the dark skinned boy had disappeared into. She ran as fast as she could, but carrying Findar slowed her down and her pursuers were gaining. A wooden door opened in the side of the alley and a skinny brown arm reached out and grabbed her.

  ‘Quick. Hide here!’ a voice whispered urgently, and they were pulled inside in a heartbeat, the door closing behind them just in time. Two pairs of heavy boots thundered past, the door shaking in their wake. Zastra turned, making out the outline of the curly-haired boy in the gloom. He held his finger to his lips and beckoned them to the back of what appeared to be a large cellar. A small barred window looked out onto a small courtyard. The two Kyrgs, having lost their quarry, were pacing in frustration.

  ‘They must be hiding in one of the houses,’ said Tholgar, eyes searching every nook and crevice. ‘Fetch the rest of the troop, while I stand guard.’ Zastra shrank back behind a large barrel. Findar, who had temporarily quietened in surprise at their hectic flight, filled his lungs as if to begin wailing again. Hastily, Zastra reached in her bag for the sugar. She and the boy both heaved sighs of relief when Findar chose to suckle quietly on her finger.

  ‘What do we have here?’ a well-mannered voice drawled from the street outside the cellar.

  Zastra and her new companion peered once more out of the cellar window. A handsome young man was seated in languid pose on the sill of a first floor window of the house opposite. He was well groomed, but dressed in ill matched, poorly fitting clothes. He peered
down at the Kyrgs and then glanced across at their barred window and winked. Zastra shrank back. The man knew they were there. A second man, as ugly as the other was handsome, popped his head out of the same window.

  ‘Looks like we have snared some Kyrgs,’ the handsome man said gaily. ‘Bullying children as usual.’

  Tholgar snarled up at them. Without hesitation, both men sprang down into the courtyard, swords appearing in their hands as if from nowhere. The Kyrgs adopted an aggressive crouch, each pulling two short, serrated blades from pouches on the sides of their hips. A rattle of pure aggression poured forth from each Kyrginite throat.

  ‘Looks like a spot of fun to be had, eh, Marik?’ said the ugly man.

  ‘There’s only two though,’ replied Marik. ‘Hardly worth bothering with, if you ask me. Still, children in distress, it behoves us to do something Godral, don’t you think?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ replied his comrade. The two men sprang upon the Kyrgs in a flurry of blades. The children watched the battle in awe, the quick flashing blades of the young men contrasting with the short, savage thrusts of the Kyrginites. The battle did not last long. The Kyrgs were both slain, although the handsome man had been caught by one the serrated blades and had a deep cut on his upper arm.

  ‘Blasted scythals,’ he said, plucking his sleeve in mild annoyance. ‘A blade of savages, if ever there was one. Dratted animals, these Kyrgs.’

  ‘Brave though,’ said his companion. ‘That big one fought to the end, even after you had disarmed him.’