‘Now I have you!’ an alien voice echoed inside her mind. Striving to raise her head against the seeming weight of the whole sky, Zastra forced her eyes upwards. Seated astride the migaradon, she saw a grey-haired woman, a scar on her face giving her mouth the appearance of a terrible, lopsided grin.
Brutila, thought Zastra, and the image of the cold, snowy mountain and a stranded child attacked by scrittals formed in her head, mixed with powerful feelings of pity and fear, just as the grey woman dug deeper into her mind. The effect was shocking and instantaneous. The grey woman folded over, as if cracked, and the huge migaradon collapsed downwards, spinning like a corkscrew as it was drawn towards the ground. It crashed into the mountainside with a shocking impact, bounced once, and then plunged down the steep slope, rolling over and over, gathering an avalanche of rocks as its despairing wail carried back up the valley. Zastra looked in horror as the beast gained speed before crashing deep into the bank of trees. It was several moments before she realised that the agonising grip on her mind had lifted. She lost no more time in urging the fellgryff onwards, and they disappeared over the mountain ridge. A rainstorm came, torrents of water soaking through Zastra’s clothes. It would wash away their scent – the dogs and soldiers would never catch them now.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Etta, a farmer who made her living in the border mountains, looked anxiously out of her window. Her son, Dalbric, was late returning from checking his traps. She hoped he had found something this time; they would need a good stock of dried meat to see them through the harsh winter that was rapidly approaching.
At last, his wiry figure emerged from the forest. He was running and carrying something with great care. As he burst through the door, Etta was shocked to hear a pitiful cry coming from the dirty bundle.
‘A baby!’ cried Dalbric. ‘And there’s a girl. I think she may be dead. Back in the forest. A creature – a fellgryff, I think, was with them, but it ran off. What shall we do, Ma?’
‘Calm down, Dalbric,’ said Etta, taking hold of the bundle. ‘Go and fetch this girl while I deal with the baby.’
‘Right,’ said Dalbric, crashing into the doorpost in his haste to depart.
Etta plucked at the bundle, rocking back at the smell. It seemed the baby had not been attended to in several days. Tutting, she cleaned away the mess and tended to a nasty rash on the baby’s bottom. Blue eyes stared out from a pale face, meeting her eyes in an unspoken plea. Etta shook her head, battling a long forgotten emotion that threatened to rise up within her.
Dalbric returned carrying a lifeless girl. As they removed her damp clothes, Etta gasped. The back of the child was disfigured by a large, bloody wound, a slash of two parallel lines that ran across from the left shoulder almost down to the waist. Some cloth was stuck to the skin around the gash. Etta disengaged it gently and washed the injured area. The still form barely moved in response to these gentle ministrations, and Etta clucked in sorrow and amazement that such a thing had been allowed to happen. She worried for the girl.
Within a day, as Etta had feared, a fever set in, the child alternating between icy shivering and a burning fever. Etta looked on, sensing the girl lay astride that thin line that separated the living from the dead. There was little she could do, other than to keep her warm and clean. It was a matter of whether the girl had the will to battle the fever and live.
The baby boy, however, was thriving. Etta found herself drawn to the quiet stoicism of the little fellow. She knew she could not become attached to the children. They had precious little food, barely enough even for herself and Dalbric – the last thing they needed was more mouths to feed. As she watched, the little baby, crawled with great determination across the floor towards his young companion, who lay unconscious on the hearthrug. He attempted to rouse his sister with the touch of his chubby little hands. When she didn’t wake, he laid his head on her stomach and fell asleep. Etta was moved in spite of herself, and she stared at them for a long time before finally rousing herself to perform the chores that had been too long delayed.
*
The days grew shorter, heralding the long mountain winter. Still the older child hovered between life and death. The fever had lessened somewhat, but her sleep was troubled, her frail body jerking with hidden nightmares. Etta watched in concern, shivering as she contemplated what the poor girl might be suffering.
Late one evening, as the wind whistled around the mountain, Etta and Dalbric were startled by a rap at the door. Visitors were extremely rare, especially at such a late hour, since their dwelling was several leagues from the nearest village. Etta glanced at their guests, sleeping together in front of the fire, and jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen. Dalbric nodded in understanding and disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing shortly afterwards with a sharp knife and a mallet. His face was filled with grim resolve. He gave the knife to Etta. Only then did she go over to the door and open it.
A tall figure, cloaked in black, stood silently before her. The wind whipped at a hood that obscured the face so that she was unable to distinguish any features. A chill ran through her frame and she tried to slam the door shut, but the figure reached out and held the door open. Inexplicably, a fog descended across her vision and confusion raged in her mind. Looking down, she saw a snake writhing in her hand. Horrified, she threw it away. The fog cleared. To her dismay she realised she stood before the visitor unarmed and defenceless. Dalbric too had dropped his mallet and stood empty handed and equally bewildered.
The black-cloaked figure raised his hands and pulled down his hood, revealing an elderly man with an ugly face. His eyes lit upon the children by the fire and he made as if to step towards them. Dalbric held out an arm to block his way. The intruder held up his hands.
‘Please – I apologise for my intrusion,’ he said. ‘I assure you I mean no harm. I have long been searching for the children you have here. I would know that they are safe and have not been harmed.’
‘They are safe enough,’ exclaimed Etta, ‘but someone has tried to harm them. How do we know you are not one of their tormentors? What was that trick you played on us just now?’
The stranger stepped backwards. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘As you can see, I carry no weapon, so I used a gift I have in order to resolve things safely. I would not have entered your minds, except for the danger of the situation.’
‘I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but these children are under my protection,’ Etta said.
‘Your sentiments do you great credit,’ said the old man, bowing his head. ‘My heart is glad to see that they have been taken in by such kindness. But I assure you I mean no harm. It is a sad time when suspicion is in everyone’s hearts.’
‘A sad time when such things can happen to children,’ retorted Etta.
The stranger’s face crumpled and there was a catch in his voice as he asked, ‘Why? What has happened? Is Zastra hurt? Or the little one? Tell me I am not too late.’
His anguish was clear and Etta relented slightly.
‘The girl is gravely ill. The fever has lessened now, thank the stars. If it weren’t for the nightmares that disturb her rest, I think she might recover.’
As if on cue, Zastra began to writhe and thrash beneath the blanket, her face scrumpled in fear, although she was still asleep.
‘I can help her, if you will allow me to try,’ said the man.
‘I don’t trust him, Ma,’ Dalbric said, folding his arms. Etta’s eyes flicked from her son to the stranger. With a sigh, she made a slight motion of her head toward the fire. The visitor needed no further encouragement. Kneeling by the girl, he laid a hand gently on her head and closed his eyes.
*
Zastra was trapped in a swirling vortex of migaradons, burning castles, black-cloaked mindweavers and scar-faced assassins. She was trying to pull Findar and Kastara out of the vortex, but they were too heavy. Their tiny hands slipped from her sweaty grasp and they were sucked into the depths. She was drawn in aft
er them, with no power to resist. Then, miraculously, she felt a presence; a strong, quiet calmness, and somehow she was lifted out of the vortex and deposited on a grassy, sunlit hillside. Blissfully, she drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep.
*
Etta and Dalbric saw only that the child had calmed under the gentle touch of the old man.
‘Such things should not have been witnessed by one so young,’ said the man, sadly. ‘My poor, dear Zastra.’
They sat for a while, watching over the sleeping children. The night drew in, and the wind grew into a gale. Rain clattered against the shutters. Etta looked around the small cabin. Normal hospitality would have her invite the stranger to stay, but they had not much room and even less food. With the two children to tend, they would struggle to feed another mouth. The man stood up.
‘I will trespass on your hospitality no longer,’ he said. ‘Will you allow me to return in a few days to see to the health of the children?’
Etta nodded. ‘If the girl asks, who shall I say you are?’
‘Tell Zastra that Master Dobery called,’ said the man, raising his hood and departing into the tempest.
*
Zastra tried to open her eyes, but they seemed locked shut, sticky and heavy. A dim, unremembered nightmare dragged at her. As she moved, a sharp pain jagged across her back, prodding her in to semi-consciousness. Her blurred vision made out a small figure with hair the colour of hay. It was nursing a baby. Zastra felt a nagging sense of urgency. She strove to wake, fixing onto the baby like a drunk who must hold onto a stationary object to stop the whole world spinning. Seeing her move, the baby pointed and clapped his hands in delight.
Findar… She sank back into the depths.
The next day, Zastra woke fully. An unknown hand gave her a cup of water, which she swallowed gratefully, her throat as raw as sand. The same gentle hand then supported her as she was fed some hot soup. She couldn’t really taste it but the sensation of warm liquid was pleasant and soothing. Even in the dimness of the hut the light seemed unnaturally bright. Findar crawled toward her and Zastra recognised her brother, weeping tears of joy as she clasped him to her.
She looked up to see a tall, thin boy and his mother. The family resemblance was clear in the straw-coloured hair, green-blue eyes and the slightly hooked nose.
‘You are safe here, Zastra,’ said the boy. ‘Both of you are safe.’
‘Dalbric found you,’ said the woman, smiling encouragingly. ‘You were both in a bit of a state, but the littlun is fine. You’ve had quite an adventure, by the look of you.’
‘Yes,’ whispered Zastra.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Etta. ‘Do you have family? Your parents will be worried.’
There was a long silence.
‘Our parents are dead,’ Zastra managed to utter at length, and turning her back lay and stared long into the depths of the fire.
Chapter Forty
Zastra recovered slowly. The mixture of malnutrition and long illness had made her extremely weak, but the kindness of her rescuers slowly brought her back to health. After a few days she was able to sit up for short periods. When Etta told her about the visit of Dobery, Zastra’s eyes lit up and she looked out impatiently for his return. It was several days before he reappeared, laden with a large sack of food. Zastra tried to rush over to him but her legs were too weak. Dobery dropped his parcel and grasped her in a firm embrace.
*
When Zastra and Dobery had recovered themselves, everyone sat down to a hearty meal of roasted meat and vegetables, cooked using the supplies Dobery had brought. Findar was then put to bed and Etta asked Zastra to tell them her story. Zastra hesitated, looking to Dobery for advice.
‘These are good people, Zastra,’ he said. ‘We owe them the truth.’
Haltingly at first she related her tale, from the terrible events at Golmer Castle through to her escape from Brutila. Etta and Dalbric listened in amazement.
‘We knew nothing of this,’ said Etta. ‘We seldom go down into the valley, and even then we rarely see soldiers. We pay tax once a year when we sell our goods down in the valley – which I resent, since I don’t see what we get back for all the money we pay.’
‘You really don’t know what’s happening in the rest of Golmeira?’ asked Zastra.
‘Don’t know and don’t care,’ exclaimed Etta. ‘We keep to ourselves up here. Of course, every once in a while, one of the village children has an impulse to go and live in the valleys. Most come back. Poor and tough our life may be, but it’s ours and it keeps us free from bother most of the time. But I don’t understand how you escaped from that horrible woman with the grey hair.’
‘Me neither,’ Zastra said. ‘One moment I was trapped on the ledge, expecting her to swoop down and kill me. Then the migaradon just crashed into the mountain.’
‘Tell me,’ said Dobery, ‘what were you thinking at the time?’
‘I was remembering what Orwin had told me about Brutila – about when she was a girl and they left her on that snowy mountain with the scrittals.’ ‘That may explain it,’ said Dobery. ‘When a mindweaver enters your mind, they can see what you see. That picture must have been terribly traumatic for Brutila. I suspect that she was taking cintara bark, which can make visions seem like reality. She would have been transported back to that time when she was a helpless child, alone and abandoned. Her mental control over the migaradon would have been broken, with terrible consequences. It was your compassion for the child Brutila that saved you, as nothing else could have.’
‘What do you mean, mental control?’ asked Dalbric, who had listened to the tale with fascination.
‘Ah, that is a long story, young man,’ said Dobery, ‘and it is getting late. I should be on my way.’
‘No, stay,’ said Etta, reaching out towards him. ‘You brought food, so you’ve earned the right to stay. We’ll find room for you somewhere.’
‘Thank you. Your kindness…’
‘No need to thank me,’ she said brusquely. ‘Now, I’ll make us some hot chala. I can see these two won’t get any sleep anyway until they hear your story, Master Dobery.’ Dalbric and Zastra fidgeted impatiently while the chala was made, until at last Dobery could tell his tale.
Chapter Forty-One
Dobery began with his trip to Waldaria with Morel and her company of soldiers, organised in response to the murder of one of the council of mindweavers.
‘When we arrived,’ he said, ‘it was clear that something was very wrong. The locals were frightened but no one would talk to us. There was a region of the Waldarian Forest that seemed to hold particular dread, so Morel decided we should investigate. We were ambushed by a large force of Kyrgs, allied with black-cloaked mindweavers. Thorlberd had laid his trap well and we were heavily outnumbered. Morel saw the hopelessness of our position and gave the order to flee.’
‘What about Morel?’ asked Zastra, anxiously. Dobery shook his head, his brow knitted in sorrow.
‘She fought bravely, forcing a gap in the line of Kyrgs so that many of our men and women could escape, but in so doing she was overpowered. At that point, I too turned and fled deep into the forest, leaving the ambush and its terrible toll far behind. After wandering aimlessly for some time I came upon a clearing in which gangs of soldiers were tugging on huge chains against something deep within a vast cave. It was a migaradon; without doubt the most fearful sight I have ever seen. A black-cloaked mindweaver mounted the beast. I saw how the rider made mental contact with the insane monster to calm and control it. That night, silhouetted against the moons, I saw a flight of the evil beasts leaving the forest, their terrible cries renting the air. With despair in my soul, I saw that they headed in the direction of Golmer Castle.
Seeking to understand what I had seen, I probed all the minds I could reach. I found some answers within the mind of an old man called Algin. He had been a servant in the household of the Lady Migara, Zastra’s grandmother. You never knew her Zastra and be grateful for it.
She was a ruthless, ambitious mindweaver. Perhaps because he sensed her lust for power, her father, Fostran the Third, decreed that his grandson Leodra should succeed him, rather than Migara, as would usually occur. Migara was incensed at being passed over. She began experiments within the Forest of Waldaria, crossbreeding bats, otters, vizzals and many other varieties of beast. Her aim was to breed a giant flying beast to conquer anyone that stood in her way.
*
This man, Algin, had a mindweaving ability so rare that I have never heard it described before; a special power of healing. Migara discovered his ability and forced him to assist her experiments. He was able to repair defects in these crossbred animals that would otherwise be fatal even before they were born. With Algin’s help, many survived in spite of their deformities. The first successful pups were derived from otters, but covered in scales and with stubs on their back, like stunted wings.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Dalbric. ‘What was she doing?’
‘The migaradons…’ whispered Zastra in horrified realisation. Dobery nodded.
‘That’s right, Zastra. Over the course of many years, the migaradon began to emerge until it begame large enough to carry a person. However, they could not control the wild nature of the brute. Born as it was from an unnatural mix of identities, its mind was filled with conflicting instincts, leaving it on the verge of madness. When Fostran died and Leodra became Grand Marl, Migara was already suffering from the illness that was to kill her, and so she persuaded Thorlberd, her favourite son, to continue her work.
‘Why?’ exclaimed Zastra. ‘Why would he plot against his own brother?’
Realm of Mindweavers: Book one: Tales of Golmeira Page 22
