‘Fit for a princess,’ exulted the woman in bitter triumph. Rooting around further, she uncovered two small baby blankets, bearing the same seal.
The captain came round the corner of the house, accompanied by a slovenly young woman.
‘Look!’ shouted Brutila, thrusting the garments in his face. ‘They were here, and you let them slip past you.’
The captain swallowed nervously. ‘This girl says she has some information,’ he muttered, shoving her forward. The woman turned her glacial stare on the girl. She could tell at once what sort of peasant she was. A brazen, dirty little slut.
‘Well?’
‘I know something, but it’ll cost you,’ said the girl boldly, although her eyes flicked nervously around the garden.
‘Tell me.’
‘Not ‘til I get those three tocrins he promised me,’ insisted the girl, glancing toward the captain.
Brutila smiled her icy smile. Three tocrins was a small amount to pay if the information was useful. But that was not her way. A quick scan of the slut’s mind yielded the information without any difficulty.
‘You saw a young boy and a man, a stranger to the village, sneak out of this house with two large bundles. You thought you heard a baby crying. Most interesting. And this just after the new regime took over.’
The girl gawped in shock.
‘How d’you know that?’
‘Oh, don’t you worry your pathetic little mind about it. Leave now. People like you disgust me.’
‘I still want me money,’ insisted the girl.
‘If you go now, you’ll escape with your life,’ said Brutila calmly. The village girl looked at the damp, emotionless eyes. Her courage failed her and she fled.
‘But we are looking for a girl, not a boy,’ mused the captain.
Brutila exhaled in annoyance. ‘Look.’ She brandished the soiled clothes. ‘They disguised themselves. Find out about this man was – this stranager. Who was he, and where did he come from? The idiot girl didn’t know his name but he was scraggy looking, not too young, but not too old either.’
She turned her back as the soldiers hurried away, once again bemoaning the fools she had to work with. Once she had succeeded in this mission she would surely be repaid with better things. Although this was a task she would have performed for no reward. Her reverie was broken by one of the guards returning, panting in his haste and eagerness to please.
‘A man – Hedrik – visited the healer Bodel around the time of our victory. From the description, he sounds like the man we are after. No one has seen him since that day. Trindhome, they say he’s from. It’s nearly sixteen leagues east of here.’
‘Excellent,’ said Brutila. ‘Ready my horse and find me a guide to Trindhome. We’ve lost enough time as it is.’
‘What about the healer?’ the guard asked. ‘No one knows where she has gone.’
‘She is of no importance,’ snapped Brutila. She stared over the hills that rose gently to the east. ‘I have your trail now, Zastra,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll pay for what your father did to me.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
For Zastra, the weeks passed with aching slowness. That first night in the forest, Findar’s crying had eventually broken through the thick shell of despair that threatened to crush her and she roused herself enough to feed and change him. It took all her effort. The smallest glimmer of determination told her that she must save her brother. She must not give in, for his sake if not her own. She managed to reset her mental block although somehow it took more effort than previously.
Eastwards they journeyed through the forest, using the shadows cast by the sun to guide them. Occasionally there were paths to follow, but more often they made their way through the spongy undergrowth, away from prying eyes. Within the first hour of every day the weight of Findar and the bag caused a deep ache in her back and shoulders. She had to rest frequently, her muscles shaking with fatigue.
Findar, mercifully, had been well-behaved and placid, but one morning he staged a protest. He did not reach up to his sister as she prepared to put him in his sling. Instead, he wriggled and writhed, screaming and wailing, until she was forced to set him down upon the ground again. He sat and fixed his blue eyes questioningly upon her, as if to ask the meaning of all these wanderings. Where was the castle? And where was his twin? Or at least that was what Zastra imagined he was thinking. Not sure what to do, she waited until Findar had cried himself quiet. Yet still he looked at her in unspoken protest.
‘I’m sorry Findar,’ she said. ‘I wish things were different too, but we can’t just stay here. We must go on.’ Findar cocked his head as if trying to comprehend. He must have understood something in the tone of her voice, since he did not protest as she gently lifted him into the sling and headed off. He did not repeat the performance again.
In the evenings, when she could walk no further, Zastra set camp. She had not dared to set a fire for the first few nights in case the Riverford migaradon should spot them. As they moved deeper into the forest she gained more courage. She was soon well practised in using the fire-ring. Hedrik had packed her a large supply of oats and she made the porridge as she had been taught. It took her a few attempts to master the art, and neither undercook nor burn it, but eventually she learnt to rustle up a bowl with some degree of confidence. It was not up to the standard of the castle kitchens, but it was warm and edible and that was enough. Every morning, stiff and sore, she was roused by the sound of Findar crying. Her feet collected more and more blisters, and each footstep had to be willed.
She struggled on, each day merging into the next, as interminable as the forest that stretched out ahead of her. However, the days, painful as they were, were no match for the nights. Zastra found sleep hard to come by. Any that did was filled with nightmare visions of flying beasts, falling bodies and floating faces of the dead. She would shudder herself awake, briefly thinking she had woken up in her room in Golmer Castle, ready for a morning of school, only to find herself still inside the nightmare. Her baby sister also haunted her. The guilt of leaving Kastara was almost constant, this pain much worse than the mere physical pain of blistered feet and sore limbs. Perhaps Hedrik and Bodel had been right – a thirteen year old girl carrying two babies together would have been like waving a flag in the air. She reviewed the terrible choice, unable to decide if it had been the right one. Not knowing whether Kastara was safe, or captured, or worse, was a constant torture.
To make matters worse, their food supply was running low. Water was plentiful, as there were many streams. This was fortunate, since the air in the forest grew hot and sticky during the day, and Zastra was always thirsty. However, the bread and meat had long gone. Although she looked out for nuts and fruit as Hedrik had taught her, she saw none that she recognised. She began to ration the oats, gnawing hunger adding itself to her other aches and pains.
One afternoon, they came across a large bush laden with greenish nuts. In desperation she wolfed them down despite their bitter taste. She regretted it later, as her stomach cramped and she was sick, leaving her weak and lightheaded. That night, after she had settled Findar down, she fingered the few coins Hedrik had given her, hidden in the lining of the jacket. Tomorrow, they must find a town or village where they could beg or buy food. It was a risk, but a necessary one. The next morning she used their last handful of oats. There was only enough porridge for Findar, but at least it kept him quiet. By consulting the map, she reckoned that if they left the forest to the south they should come across a main road, upon which they must surely find a village.
It was almost noon before the trees began to thin out and she found herself looking down onto an open valley. Shielding her eyes from the harsh midday sun, bright after the shade of the trees, she scanned the sky and to her relief saw no sign of migaradons. On the floor of the valley below a track ran alongside a large stream. Several distant wagons crawled along it. They were moving toward a large village, and Zastra decided to head in the same direction. He
r heart began to race. It seemed an age since she had last had contact with people. As she got closer, she made out the glint of metal and the uniforms of soldiers, but there was nothing for it; they must have food or starve. Anyway, she had fooled the soldiers before. She only hoped she could do it again.
In a happy coincidence, they had stumbled upon market day. Zastra sneaked into the village via an unguarded side path. The soldiers, mainly Kyrgs, were preoccupied in stopping and searching the wagons as they came in along the main road. The nearness and bustle of the crowds was strange at first, after so many days of lone travelling and for a while Zastra contented herself with observing and listening. Lost in the crowd, no one paid any attention to a dishevelled, scrawny-looking youth.
‘What kind of price is that for a loaf of bread?’ a woman was protesting. The stall keeper shrugged.
‘Ten percent of all my goods taken,’ he complained. ‘That’s before I’ve even sold anything. And my carthorses have been impounded by the royal guards, so I’ve had to pay to borrow some.’ He looked surreptitiously around before spitting on the ground. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is these days.’
‘Well, I’ve got four mouths to feed. At your prices we’ll have nothing by the end of the week. Come, I’ll give you a quarter tocrin for two loaves.’
‘Sorry, but I’ve littluns of my own. The price stands.’
‘Gouging flekk. I’ll go elsewhere,’ said the woman as she stomped off.
‘Good luck,’ muttered the stall keeper turning his head towards the watching Zastra.
‘Well? Are you going to buy, or just gawp, lad?’
Zastra purchased a loaf of bread and a couple of fresh rolls, stuffing the rolls hungrily into her mouth as she continued down the market. Everyone was complaining about the price of food. Soldiers were constantly patrolling and Zastra could feel the touch on her mind that indicated a mindweaver was in the area. She looked around anxiously, but found it was impossible to see past the wall of taller people who surrounded her. Suddenly, a gap opened in the crowd and she spotted a tall, black robed figure only a few yards away. The mindweaver. It was a man, judging by his build. Fortunately, he had his back turned to her and she ducked through the crowd, away from the figure, not daring to glance back. She wasted no time in making their other purchases. Not for the first time, she whispered silent thanks to Hedrik. Seeing the haggling and half empty baskets of the country people made her realise what a generous gift his few tocrins had been. She was able to replenish their supplies and even purchase some milk as a treat for Findar. Her brother drank it greedily. She looked hungrily at a stall filled with cakes and sweets, but they were expensive. Reluctantly, she decided they could not afford to use their precious funds for such things. Her backpack full, she headed towards the eastern exit of the village, eager to escape the crowds and return to the relative safety of the forest. She was twenty paces from the edge of the village when she felt a strange creeping feeling, as if she was was being watched. She whirled round. There, not ten paces away, two men sat perched in a smart two-horse trap. Closest to her was a man with a thin, neat beard, elegantly dressed in a bright yellow tunic. He was watching her closely. Somehow, she knew he was laughing at her, although his face was inscrutable. Stunned, she realised he must be in her head and as the realisation came, she identified the tell-tale touch in her mind. She didn’t know how she could have missed it. The touch was somehow different, more delicate than any she had felt before. Battling the desperate urge to panic, she nudged her cap lower over her head, the echo of silent laughter roiling in her mind. Had he been able to get through her defences? Did he know who she was? All she knew was they had to leave, and quickly.
‘Oy, lad, watch where you’re going!’ a harsh voice shouted, as she clattered into a burly frame. The jolt loosened the sling and Findar began to wail.
‘Sorry,’ Zastra mumbled, without stopping. A pair of grimy hands reached out at her, seeking to tear Findar from her grasp.
‘My own dear boy!’ a wild-eyed woman was yelling. She was emaciated, dirt ingrained in her skin and fingernails. ‘You’ve stolen my boy. Give ’im back. Give ‘im back now.’
‘No!’ protested Zastra with instant vehemence. ‘You crazy woman, leave us alone.’
But the wild woman continued to paw at them and Zastra could not shake her off.
A man stepped in. ‘What’s going on?’ he said.
‘My boy, my baby boy. They’ve stolen my baby boy,’ wailed the woman.
‘He’s not hers,’ protested Zastra. ‘He’s my brother – she’s mad.’
Drawn by the noise, a pair of Kyrginites bustled over, the crowd parting to let them through. As they arrived, an older woman came over and gently drew the wild woman away from Zastra.
‘There, my dear, he’s not your boy. Your boy is dead – they killed him, remember? Let this poor lad be.’
The woman stared blankly up at the old lady, the wildness leaking out of her eyes and replaced by emptiness. She allowed herself to be led away.
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered the old lady. ‘The soldiers came to examine her baby and when she wouldn’t let go of him, they killed him. It weren’t more than two days ago. She’s been distraught ever since, keeps thinking she sees her littlun.’
Zastra’s relief in their deliverance was short-lived.
‘You there, boy. Take your cap off. Let’s have a look at you. And let me see that baby.’ A Kyrginite glowered down at them and Zastra reluctantly scraped the cap off her head. The Kyrg reached out a hand and lifted her chin, tilting his head as he made close examination of her face, particularly her eyes. Without removing his gaze, he called over his shoulder to those behind him.
‘I think we’ve got something here. Come and see.’
A sinkhole plunged through Zastra’s stomach, removing air from her lungs, and strength from her limbs. It was over. That stupid crazy woman had ruined it for them.
A gasp came from the crowd, a collective inhalation as if it had been dealt a firm body blow. To her astonishment, the Kyrg in front of Zastra crumpled to the floor. One by one, the other Kyrgs collapsed in a similar manner.
‘Here!’ called a voice. The man in the yellow tunic was looking down at her from the trap, arm extended, his companion barely holding the skittering pair of horses at bay.
‘Come, I’ve made them sleep, but not for long. Hurry, girl!’
Zastra hesitated for only a fraction of a second. She clambered into the back of the trap, which was half filled with boxes and chests, and was sent sprawling to the hard floor as the energetic horses were released, the trap almost overturning in the haste of their departure. Behind her the crowd were gathering around the fallen Kyrgs. A tall, hooded figure burst from the crowd. It was the black cloaked mindweaver. The hood obscured his face, but she felt his shaded eyes glaring at her.
Zastra… a voice echoed in her head. The mindweaver knew her name. She shuddered, crying out in fear as the black figure began to chase after them. She felt another strong probe attack her mind before they rounded a corner and left the village and the mindweaver behind them. She clung tightly to the side of the trap, expecting another attack on her defences at any moment, but none came. They had escaped.
Chapter Thirty
Zastra tried to adjust herself to the motion of the trap, but the constant pitching and jolting knocked her off her feet and sent boxes skidding into her shins. There seemed to be sharp corners everywhere and she received a succession of painful blows as she protected Findar with her body. At last, to her relief, the horses slowed to a rapid trot and the man in yellow turned to address her.
‘Even these lovelies can’t keep up that pace for long, but they’ll trot on at a good pace now. I doubt those Kyrgs will catch us. I’m Gildarn and this delightful chap is my husband Draygal, but you can call us Gil and Dray, everyone else does.’
Zastra nodded mutely.
‘And might I have the honor of your introduction?’
‘Don’t y
ou already know who I am?’
Gildarn raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting. So you knew I was in your head. But you are no mindweaver, I’d venture?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘He’s always nosing about in people’s minds,’ said Draygal apologetically. ‘It’s a terrible habit of his, and I do keep trying to make him stop, but he’s just too interested in other people’s business.’
‘Nonsense,’ protested Gil. ‘It was you who made me. “What an interesting young boy,” you said and so I took a small peek. Who knew it would be a girl?’
He turned back to Zastra.
‘My dear child, I apologise for invading your privacy. It is simply that, things being as they are at the moment, I like to know who is who. I couldn’t read much. You have been well taught by someone but your mind is still a girl’s mind. I can tell these things, although it is a subtlety lost on most mindweavers. And I caught a glimpse of Golmer Castle. Given that the Kyrgs seemed to have found what they were looking for, I’d guess that would make you Zastra, Leodra’s daughter. This bundle of screaming joy – would that be one of the twins?’
Zastra didn’t see any point in denying it.
‘This is Findar,’ she admitted.
‘Well Zastra, you are welcome to travel with us as long as you wish. We are heading out of Golmeira, before these terrible Kyrgs overrun us all. Dray has some masterful plan of stealing a boat and heading for the Far Isles.
Realm of Mindweavers: Book one: Tales of Golmeira Page 16
