‘I don’t remember,’ stammered Ilursa, ‘but I am sure I would have spotted anything unusual.’
‘I will need to look into your memories,’ commanded Brutila, moving closer to the mindweaver. ‘Do not resist me.’
Ilursa closed her eyes and nodded once.
Brutila accessed the memories without much trouble. The image of the large, strident woman and the sound of crying children were strong, but the children were faceless and blurred. It was no good. Brutila snarled with frustration.
‘Useless. You are not observant enough. All we can do is try to find this woman. You are fortunate that I have not the time or energy to punish you.’
Turning to Finton, she demanded a guide to Borsha and two of the best horses to be found in Riverford. The Prefect was most happy to oblige and sent her on her way with a fawning bow.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Brutila looked around Borsha in disgust. It was a dirty village, full of stupid, dirty peasants. However, she was satisfied to note the fear in the villagers’ eyes as they looked at her. No one dared to hold her gaze and most slunk away as she rode past. It didn’t take them long to find Nula’s wooden shack. ‘My, my Leodra,’ she said to herself with an unpleasant grin. ‘Your children really have been brought down to live in the dirt.’
Only two soldiers had been stationed at Borsha as the village was not considered of any strategic importance. They seemed reluctant to be roused from their present happy idleness, until Brutila’s guide explained things to them, at which point they sprang to attention. At her command, they emptied Nula’s house of its occupants, flinging them onto the street as if they were mere sacks of rubbish. Nula herself refused to move, and the soldiers’ ears stung from the various insults she hurled at them. They would have had difficulty removing her considerable frame, but the children were lighter and Nula was drawn out of the house by their cries. Eyeing up the situation, she quickly determined who was in command and confronted the grey woman defiantly, hands planted on her ample hips. Brutila did not deign to dismount her horse, casually leaning down to flick away an insect from her boot before speaking with dangerous mildness.
‘You assisted a boy with two young babies leaving Riverford. Where are they?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ responded Nula belligerently. ‘Now, I demand an expla—’
Brutila held up her hand, shaking her head in a pale mimicry of sorrow. Nula caught sight of something in the damp, emotionless eyes that silenced her.
‘Come now. There is no point in resisting. It’s not you we want. Tell me what you know and I’ll spare your children.’
The woman wavered, looking anxiously at her children. This was the moment Brutila enjoyed; the moment they gave in.
‘So what if we did?’ Nula’s voice retained some of the bravado, but worry clouded her eyes.
‘They are traitors and must be apprehended.’
‘They were just children. How can children be traitors?’
‘That is none of your concern, woman.’
Brutila narrowed her eyes, delving into the peasant woman’s thoughts. She had to swim through a swamp of crude thoughts and images, but eventually she found what she was looking for. She backed out in surprise.
‘There was only one baby? What about the baby girl?’
‘There was no baby girl,’ Nula admitted reluctantly. Brutila delved deeper, harder, causing Nula to cry out in pain, her knees buckling. A dark skinned boy with curly hair rushed towards Brutila and pounded at her leg.
‘Boltan, no!’ Nula cried.
Brutila swatted at the boy, but he would not be shaken off and he grabbled hold of her left leg and tried to drag her from her horse. Brutila kicked him away and drew her sword. A crowd of villagers closed around them, muttering and glaring.
Brutila was perplexed. She was certain the woman was hiding nothing. Nula had a good memory for faces and Brutila detected some of the hated features of Leodra in the “boy” Hedrik. Indeed, the choice of the name Hedrik was enough to give the game away. But then what had become of Kastara? She turned to the impetuous boy and pried deep into his mind. He had not the wit to assemble distractions in the way of his mother and Brutila was able to extract several images before the boy fainted under the probing. Two of these images had significance; the sadness in the eyes of the pretend Hedrik, which spoke of recent loss and the image of a small baby with blue lips, dying or dead on the streets of Riverford.
That must be it. Kastara must have perished in the blue fever in Riverford. Brutila didn’t know whether to smile in triumph, or be upset that one of Leodra’s children had escaped her. She turned her gaze on the younger children. They cowered in terror before this ghostly apparition that had withered their invincible Ma with a mere glance. Brutila looked them over, prepared to dig into their minds. They may have more information to confirm her suspicions.
The murmurings of the villagers grew louder as they closed threateningly around the group. Brutila noticed that several carried makeshift weapons. She realised with shock that here were more than thirty men and women. Where had they come from? She could take many of them, but she only had three guards and the villagers looked very angry.
Discretion was called for. They had the information they needed, there was no point risking more. Brutila extricated herself from the restive crowd and left the village with the guards. She elected to return to Riverford for reinforcements, guiding her horse back along the main road.
Zastra, Zastra… Where are you going? Brutila tried to anticipate the thoughts of her quarry. There was nothing to the direct north save the Helgarth Mountains. Zastra would be extremely foolish to head that way. The main road headed east past Gorst Town and then the options were to head north to Lyria or south down to the coast and the fortified port of Seacastle. Brutila had been informed that Seacastle was still holding out against Thorlberd’s forces. Perhaps Zastra planned to head that way and seek passage on a ship to the Far Isles, well beyond the edge of Golmeirian territory. It was a sensible strategy and should not be discounted. But Brutila’s thoughts were drawn to Lyria. The scene of Leodra’s infamy and Brutila’s humiliation so long ago. The grey haired woman shivered, pulling her grey fur lined coat tight against her body, even as the evening sun shone down upon her.
Yes, he may well have sent you to Lyria.
An image of snow and the bitter sensation of cold rushed and swirled in her mind, almost solid, almost real. She fought the rising panic, knowing the image to be a memory, no more. With an effort of will she was able to quell the vision. Nevertheless, the strength of the vision and the apparent reality of it concerned her. A side effect of the cintara? Possibly. But it must be borne, there was much work to do. Her iron grip was closing around the two remaining children of her enemy. Soon they would know terrors they had never dreamed of…
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hot, hungry and tired, Zastra shaded her eyes with her hand and looked down onto the sunlit valley below. Embedded in the other side of the valley, on the far side of a lively river, sat a large castle. Built from the red stone of the valley, it appeared to have been carved out of the mountainside itself. If Zastra had read her map correctly, this was Lyria, home of their father’s friend and ally, Marl Orwin. Behind her stood the Evergreen Forest. A gentle breeze swished through the trees and caused the thin branches to dip and wave in a gesture of farewell. Zastra was not sorry to leave it behind. Although she had become strong from her exertions and her blisters had long since disappeared, the steep, root-entangled slopes had made progress difficult. Then there were the numerous biting insects, angry at being disturbed, that had left red welts all over her arms and ankles. It had taken her several long weeks to battle through the large swathe of forest that separated Gorst Town from the Lyria valley. Thankfully the journey had been uneventful and they had met no one.
Findar seemed excited by the sunlight, reaching out with his chunky hands and crying out in pleasure. The land had been cleared of trees
to make way for stepped farmland and houses. A few wagons moved slowly along the floor of the valley below them. Zastra could see only one bridge across the river, linking the red castle to the large, paved track that headed south down the valley towards the coast. According to her map, the border regions lay over the eastern ridge of the valley, beyond the castle. Beyond the borders lay the bleaker terrain of Sendor.
Zastra sighed. In the last few days they had again run out of food and her new found strength was fading. Wearily, she heaved Findar up into his sling and headed down the steep slope towards the bridge. There were a series of half paths and natural steps cut into the mountainside to help her as she scrambled down, but it was hot work, with the late summer sun rising high in the sky. She was parched by the time she reached the bridge. Lyria Castle, which had looked so close from the edge of the forest, now seemed further away, sitting in state at the top of a winding track. The bridge was guarded by four Bractarian soldiers, but Zastra noted with relief the absence of any black robes. She stepped boldly across the bridge, hoping that the plan she had hatched that morning would work. The soldiers seemed more interested in arguing with each other than paying attention to them.
‘I tell, you, this is a punishment,’ one of the soldiers was saying. ‘I asked to be posted in Golmer, where all the action is, or at least in one of the big cities. But a bit of backchat to that flekk of a captain and I end up here, in the middle of nowhere. Nothing ever happens in Lyria.’
‘Oh, quit your whining,’ said one of the other soldiers. ‘We should all be thankful Marl Orwin opened up his gates without a fight. Sensible man, knows when he’s beat. Just the sight of the migaradon was enough, never mind that Thorlberd had orchestrated the mindweavers to act on his behalf. That was genius. We get all the glory of conquest without any of the trouble, so stop complaining. You boy!’ he gestured to Zastra. ‘Where are you bound?’
‘To the castle,’ mumbled Zastra, ‘looking for the healer.’
‘The healer? Why?’
‘It’s my brother,’ replied Zastra, prodding Findar into surprised crying. ‘I’m worried sick. He’s hot as anything and his lips started to go blue just this morning.’
‘Blue?’ said the man, fear and disgust flicking across his face.
Zastra broke into a hoarse cough, nodding. A fold of material fell away, revealing Findar’s face, his lips a bluish-purple against his pale skin.
‘On you go,’ said the soldier in disgust, backing away and waving them along whilst covering his mouth with his arm. Zastra did as she was told, forcing herself to trudge slowly up the path, despite the urge to run. When they were out of sight of the bridge, she rubbed away the berry juice that she had smeared across Findar’s lips. Her plan had worked to perfection.
It was not until they were stood in front of the gates of Lyria Castle that Zastra realised she had not thought of a strategy to get in and see Orwin. She could hardly announce their presence and demand an audience with the Marl. The guards at the gate sent her round to the kitchens, where apparently help was required. Unsure whether she had understood the instructions properly, she entered a small courtyard where a group of boys were playing. Zastra went over to ask them for directions, but they ignored her, intent as they were on their game.
That game was not a pleasant one. Surrounded by several taunting youths was a burly boy with a thick mane of blond hair. He seemed oddly misaligned at first. As he turned towards the ringleader, Zastra could see his left arm was withered and shrivelled; only half the size it should be. He carried his head in a lopsided way, his left eye glassy and unseeing. It was to his left side that the boys attacked, poking him with sticks and throwing pebbles.
‘Ho, P-P-Podrik!’ mocked the tallest boy, a red haired, freckled youth who appeared to be the ringleader.
The large boy turned ponderously. ‘P-please s-stop,’ he stuttered, and the surrounding youths rocked with laughter.
‘Podrik, the cripple,’ they sang. ‘Can’t even say his own name. Ho, ugly brute.’
Angered, Podrik lumbered towards one of the boys, but he was too slow and his quarry slipped easily away. Another boy threw a clod of earth, striking Podrik in the back of the head. The expression on his face raised a memory in Zastra of a time a travelling circus had visited Golmer Castle. They had brought with them an old plough horse, a mottled grey mare whose protruding ribs and sad eyes spoke of years of mistreatment. Zastra, six years old at the time, had been very upset by the sight. She saw the same helpless expression of fear and hurt on Podrik’s face as she had seen on the old plough horse. In response to her pleas, her father had ordered the horse be released into his care and ensured it was looked after; she had been so proud of him that day. Her anger rose and without thinking she strode forward.
‘That’s it Podrik,’ laughed the red-headed boy as Podrik fell to his knees under a sly blow from one of the group. ‘Show some respect for your betters.’
‘You have to earn respect first,’ cried Zastra, stepping into the ring. ‘And I don’t see anything here to respect. Just a bunch of bullies. It’s shameful – five of you with sticks and stones against one boy.’ She stood before the red-headed boy, glaring at him.
‘Oooh,’ cooed one of the other boys, mockingly, ‘and who are you?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Well, what we are doing is none of your business,’ said the redhead, looking around at his appreciative audience.
‘Good one, Terlan,’ the other boy said, clapping and hooting.
The boy called Terlan cast his eyes back on Zastra.
‘Now clear off, country boy, and let us have our fun.’ ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Zastra, ‘unless of course you’re afraid of a fair fight?’
‘Oooh!’ hooted the gang, clapping their hands in excitement.
Terlan twirled his stick, eying up his opponent. He looked to be a few years older than Zastra and a good foot taller.
‘All right,’ he nodded, with a confident grin.
‘All right,’ returned Zastra with resolute determination, keeping her eye on Terlan as she offered her hand to Podrik.
‘Would you look after something very important to me?’ she whispered. Podrik nodded and, loosening the sling, Zastra gave over the sleeping Findar to him. She then turned to face Terlan.
‘Lyria rules suit you?’ the boy said with a sly grin.
‘What are Lyria rules?’
‘You start with what you’ve got,’ he jeered, holding up his stick to the laughter of his gang. Zastra looked at her empty hands and shrugged. Terlan circled her, brandishing and prodding his stick. Zastra forced her weary bones into fighting stance, expending the minimum of effort as she turned to keep her face towards her circling opponent. Eventually, bored of trying to goad her, Terlan broke forward, swinging the stick hard. Zastra weaved with all the grace of her natural agility and training, and as the stick whipped past her face she used the boy’s uncontrolled momentum to trip him and throw him to the ground. He landed in a puddle of wet mud with a satisfying shlock. A few of the other boys tittered.
‘You stinking…’ cried Terlan
‘Actually, I think it’s you that’s stinking,’ said Zastra with a grin. ‘That mud…’
‘That ain’t mud,’ said one of the youths, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
Enraged, Terlan scrabbled up and attacked her again. This time Zastra stepped towards the challenge, ducking underneath the stick and striking a strong blow to the midriff. Terlan collapsed, winded. As had been the custom at Golmer Castle, Zastra stood back to allow him to catch him breath.
‘He’s showing Terlan a thing or two,’ giggled one of the onlooking gang.
‘Good skills,’ muttered another, nodding his head in admiration.
‘Shut up!’ cried Terlan, dropping the stick and running straight at Zastra. He tried to grapple her, no doubt hoping to use his considerable weight advantage. Zastra used the trick she had learnt from Kylen to trip the boy and deposit him on hi
s back with an oomph of exhaled air. She then placed her knee in his chest until he was forced to surrender. As she let him up, he looked at her indecisively. He was saved by a call from the edge of the courtyard. A Bractarian guard marched over. His red hair and features indicated that he was Terlan’s father.
‘You, boy!’ the soldier exclaimed, grabbing a handful of Zastra’s shirt. ‘Who are you, you filthy thing, to be fighting my boy?’
‘No one, sir,’ muttered Zastra, suddenly afraid. Would her impetuousness get them caught now, when they were so close to safety?
‘No one eh? Well, my captain won’t appreciate that kind of answer. Likes everything in order, she does. Do you have any papers?’
‘No.’
‘Well, perhaps a trip to the mindweaver will jog your memory.’
‘It’s all right, sergeant. This is one of my new kitchen boys. I’ll see he gets punished. But your boy started the trouble, so you may want to do the same.’
A short, round woman, wearing a green apron stained with grease and flour, stepped out of a nearby doorway. Her hair was tied back, with more than a few strands of grey showing through a thick mass of black. Her dark black eyebrows were stitched together in a forbidding frown. Wisely, the soldier chose not to argue.
‘All right, Morn,’ he said, beckoning Terlan away.
‘I’ll get you later, country boy,’ Terlan spat, as he and his gang headed off. Zastra went to retrieve Findar, who had slept quietly through the whole event.
‘Thank you for looking after him,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind,’ replied Podrik and a smile as lopsided as the rest of his body lit up his moon-like face.
‘Podrik – look at the state of you. Mud everywhere, and I only washed those trousers yesterday,’ clucked the woman.
‘I’m s-sorry, M-m-ma.’
‘Never mind,’ she sighed, ‘I can guess what happened. Who might you be, young master? I’ve not seen you before. A stray by the looks and smell of you.’
Realm of Mindweavers: Book one: Tales of Golmeira Page 18
