Instead, I open my eyes to see our camp dotted with golden shafts of light piercing through the trees above. I have seen some beautiful sights passing through the frozen wastes but no amount of winter beauty, so frigid and aloof, can compare to this almost forgotten sight. The sun, so seemingly impotent for the vast majority of this journey, has finally found its voice.
“Beautiful or what?” croaks Morrigan, sleep still not entirely gone from his voice.
“Well, there’s hardly any snow around at all is there? What did you expect?” I reply, climbing to my feet. Morrigan, still on his back, doesn’t respond.
I take a second to enjoy the fact that the cold hasn’t compelled me to immediately ‘fur up’ and, instead, use the opportunity to stretch and look around. Birds chatter in the trees above. Shara is nowhere to be seen. It must be one of the best starts to a day that I’ve had since last summer.
I can’t get too excited about Shara’s absence though. She always rises at dawn in order to hunt and I’ve no doubt that she will soon be returning, face like thunder, laden with fresh game, ready to prepare breakfast. I begin to lay a fire.
It is some time later before she returns. She has nothing in her hands and her face is fierce and alert. This face, combined with her brisk yet careful movement, immediately suggests there’s something wrong.
“End fire,” she whispers sharply. Despite it being a whisper, it carries quite comfortably across the clearing. To accompany this command, she strikes her left hand sharply across her body.
“Crow man get up. Man come. Brightstone man come. We hide.”
I hastily extinguish the fire using the earth dug from the pit where I laid it. We both follow her, almost without question. Before we even understand what is happening, we are concealed within dense undergrowth.
“Crow man stay. Crow man loud. Goat man follow. You see Brightstone man,” she whispers. I look into her wild eyes and note the dilation of her pupils. This is her in the midst of battle – so careful, so aware. Almost frightened of my own footsteps, I follow her back to the front of the foliage.
“Down!” she snaps. “Look.”
Through the bushes, I can just make out three men entering the clearing where, only moments before, we had been asleep. The first thing that stands out is their armour. They are wearing full plate. If I didn’t know better, I would say that it was gold plate. There is something almost divine about the way the morning light bounces from them.
Two of them are big, powerful men at least the same size as Morrigan, if not bigger. The third is much slighter in comparison and is the only one not wearing a helmet. His eyes flicker around the bushes, scanning for signs of life. One of the bigger ones inspects the fire, which is still hot, while the other one investigates the hastily vacated sleeping pits. I am in no doubt that they know they very nearly caught someone.
For the first time I realise that, to them, we will appear as nothing but savages. The only difference between us and the savages is Vesta’s cipher that we both have hidden in our underclothes. But would we even have time to reveal this to them before they tried to kill us? Something within me doubts this very much. I suddenly realise why Shara has been so concerned: even if we succeed in reaching the gates of Brightstone, we will be killed on the spot.
The men grumble between themselves in hushed voices. They are quite clearly on edge. I reason that they must surely be aware that there is a good chance they’re being watched and, as such, are at risk of ambush. The eyes of the smaller man do not leave the bushes but the only consolation is that he is not watching our area any closer than the rest of the clearing. He cannot have seen us.
“We kill?” whispers Shara.
“We follow,” I reply. Her response, an exasperated breath, tells me all that I need to know.
Twenty-three
We track the men through the forest for most of the day. The sun in the sky warns us that they do not seem to be heading towards the location of Brightstone as written on our map. Instead, they appear to be carrying out some sort of circular tour, perhaps a patrol.
More than ever, I am beginning to realise that things would be very different without Shara. Her expertise in stalking is almost frightening. She seems to instinctively consider everything: the bearing of the sun, the shadows that it creates and the direction of the prevailing wind. She is even synchronised with the fluctuating alertness levels of each individual man: “Small man never stops.” We would not have been able to do this without her.
She has even learned to compensate for our unhelpful presence. Whilst I am fairly light and quick on my toes, Morrigan has all the stealth of his own big black battle steed. Even this disadvantage seems to be manageable for Shara who, like a wolfmother moving her cubs, shows him a place to hide each time and only moves him on when it is safe to do so.
Even more impressive is the way that she has managed to maintain the hunt whilst still finding time to criticise the decision to follow them. Every opportunity she gets, she manages to find time to grumble about how ‘the goat man wants to die’.
Morrigan and I, however, both agree that we need to follow these men. We need to find an opportunity to introduce ourselves to them when they are off guard. We are hoping that this opportunity will occur when they set up camp for a meal. We are not to know, however, that the opportunity is about to occur much sooner.
Eventually, they are ambushed. As it occurs, I suddenly realise that it was inevitable; golden armour is not exactly conducive to stealth. A large group of savages, perhaps twenty or so, rise from the woods as seamlessly as if the trees themselves had come to life. Morrigan, a man incapable of standing by, trundles into the battle without so much as a second thought. Shara casts me a glance as though to request permission and I simply nod. It all happens incredibly quickly. Had I had more choice, I might have waited to see how the fight developed before entering. Now, however, within an instant of the ambush, I find myself lost in the confusion of battle.
It turns out that we needn’t have joined so hastily. For the men of Brightstone are clearly not a soft target. Their golden plate armour seems almost impenetrable to the unsophisticated savage weaponry and yet, at the same time, scarcely hinders their movement. The chosen spot of ambush, designed to be tight and restrictive for these golden juggernauts, doesn’t seem to have given the savages one centimetre of advantage. Instead, they almost appear to be broken from the time that they see Morrigan lurching towards them from the fringes of the battle. Several of their number are dead before I even arrive. I, meanwhile, having never fought in a battle of such size before, am not entirely sure what I should be doing.
As I approach, I quickly scan the action unfolding around me. Shara is gone, no doubt hunting down the archers and skirmishers that are hiding on the fringes. Morrigan is carving his way through the right flank of the ambush. The small Brightstone soldier is on the ground with an arrow protruding from his neck. One of the bigger ones is on the far side of the battle, moving through it with the same professional ease as Morrigan. The other one is closer to me and holding his own against four savages, including two who are comfortably larger than Morrigan. It is he who looks like he is in the most trouble.
My arrival immediately makes an impact, if only for the confusion it causes. I manage a damaging swipe to the leg of one of the savages that sends him to his knees. This brings me the attention of one of the hammer men, virtually a giant, who fires at me a clumsy and easily avoidable swipe of his hammer. This distraction affords the gold man the opportunity he needs to dispatch him.
Unfortunately though, it is here that the gold man makes the wrong decision. He takes me into his sights, clearly having failed to realise that I have already felled one of his ambushers. I am scarcely able to parry a couple of his blows away before he is sent, quite literally, flying by a fierce hammer blow to the chest from the other hammer man. With this simple devastating act, I find myself fighting two men, one of whom is twice my size and carrying a tremendous warhammer. It
takes virtually all my effort to keep out of its range. The man’s face, coloured brown with some sort of paint, is a mask of rage and I at once understand I have no chance.
Fortunately though, the rest of the battle has been swift and brutal and, as a result, he is probably the only savage worth his salt left on the battlefield. I am able to defend myself just about long enough to be rescued by Morrigan who plunges his sword deep into the giant’s back. After having done this, he takes down the other savage quite easily in an almost nonchalant exchange of two or three sword blows.
About fifty metres away, the last gold man standing fells the last savage standing and turns his weapon tentatively in our direction. It is only now I realise that his sword is sheathed. The weapon he holds in his hand looks like an iron tube attached to a piece of wood; not especially threatening. Morrigan raises his sword in a defensive stance, holds up a single hand, and steps towards the man. Without warning, something explodes from the weapon. Morrigan and I both jump from our skins, terrified. Birds scatter out of the trees above us. My first instinct is that it is some kind of magic. Shara is nowhere to be seen.
“Ho!” shouts Morrigan, just about managing to hide the panic in his voice, “Ho!”
I, meanwhile, rush hurriedly to remove the cipher handed to us by Vesta from my undergarments. As soon as I find it, I throw it on the floor and gesture to it. As I do this, the other gold man, the one sent flying by the hammer blow, manages to get back to his feet. He raises his weapon to us in a similar manner to his companion. Bit by bit, they edge their way towards the note on the ground. One of them, the one without the dent in his chest, drops down to the floor very briefly to collect it. His friend, meanwhile, keeps his exploding weapon trained on Morrigan. The only thing I can hear is the racing of my pulse as he slowly inspects the note.
Whatever wording it is that the note contains seems to be enough for them to lower their weapons. They talk to each other in a language that sounds entirely different from any of the other tongues we have heard on our journey so far. This language is a much bouncier sounding one, one that sounds like they actually enjoy talking, and quite different to the guttural grunts of the various savages we have met so far. It is only now that I notice that their plate armour has a large sun shape embossed on the front. In our kingdom, it would cost a fortune. In fact, it might not even be possible to make.
“So then, chaps, can you take us to Brightstone or not?” asks Morrigan, as oblivious as ever to the barriers of language. Visors up, they turn towards him at mention of the word ‘Brightstone’ and their eyes alight with a flicker of recognition.
“Brightstone,” the dentless one replies, nodding. The manner in which he says it sounds to me quite a factual one, as though Brightstone was the answer to the question that Morrigan asked.
There is a very definite stillness in the air. Nobody is quite sure what the next move is or how it is going to proceed. The birds above us continue to chatter peacefully, the sun continues to cast its gentle light and, somewhere around us, Shara must be watching.
The men continue their discussion. They do so loudly and with quite a degree of gesticulation. So much so in fact that it is hard to tell whether they are arguing or whether it is just the general enthusiasm of their language. From their gestures, I am able to surmise that they are discussing not only us but also their fallen colleague and the number of dead savages that surround us. An uncomfortable amount of time passes before anything is decided.
They gesture for us to drop our weapons, which I do, but only in the knowledge that Morrigan always has a short sword concealed and that Shara is sure to be watching over us. They then gesture for us to sit. From the way they shout whenever one of us so much as turns to look at the other, it is quite clear that they don’t want us to move.
Whilst we remain still, they take the time to strip all the corpses, including that of their fallen friend, of anything of value. They then place these items, a few weapons and some armour, in a pile next to us. After this is done, they go about burying their friend. They do so solemnly, and, as soon as his body is covered, make a few words and gestures that I interpret as a form of prayer. During this whole process, one of them always has half an eye on Morrigan and me. With Shara’s likely presence forming a comfort to both of us, we meekly comply with their orders.
When this is done, they offer me the armour of their fallen friend. The idea of wearing something that a man has just died in seems rather grim to me and I politely refuse. However, their response to my refusal, a raised sword, makes it quite clear that the initial ‘offer’ wasn’t, in fact, an offer at all. I change my mind and decide that this is not an issue that I will let them kill me over. As I strap up, I quickly become aware of why it is they are asking me to wear it; it is far to cumbersome to carry and yet, at the same time, surely too valuable to leave. I can barely walk and, at the same time, find myself uncomfortably hot. I don’t have the patience to find this rapid swing in temperature even vaguely amusing.
As soon as I am ready, we leave in convoy. I had been half expecting them to tie us up but they seem happy enough at our docility and with the fact that they are carrying our weapons. One of them leads us whilst the other one follows behind. They make it quite clear that they do not expect us to say a word.
As what is quite clearly our captivity continues, I begin to find myself wondering when and if Shara is going to attempt to rescue us. In doing so, I am faced with my feelings about the girl. Perhaps they are not such hard feelings as I first thought. Even the fact that I expect her to rescue us is telling me something. Why on earth should I be expecting her to rescue me?
In fact, I don’t even understand the nature of her allegiance to us. I’ve been wanting to rid myself of her for weeks – surely she has used this as her opportunity to leave? But if she wanted to leave then she could have left weeks ago, of her own volition. This contradiction seems to cast light on the complicated nature of my feelings towards her. A large part of me is disappointed that she appears to have abandoned us, but yet an even larger part of me is almost sure that she wouldn’t. Perhaps the greatest surprise of all to me is the realisation that I would be disappointed not to see her again. Not a single part of me wants that.
Twenty-four
The sun is on the verge of setting when we catch our first glimpse of Brightstone. Cast in the glorious gold of the sun setting behind it, it appears to us as some sort of utopia as we rise over the crest of this huge fortified hill. From our vantage point, we can see a peninsula attached by a bridge to a series of islands spread out in front of us, all stacked with evidence of civilisation, each reaching further and further out into the boat-speckled sea. The smallest of these islands contains only one building – a building with glittering golden domes that is so large and resplendent that it can only be a palace. If it is a palace then it makes the one at Tallakarn seem like my father’s tool shed.
The hill we are standing upon clearly now lies at the bulwark of some ongoing battle between this civilisation and whoever it is that lies out there in the snow. The distinction between the huge forested islands behind, pockmarked with scorched villages, and the small, heavily populated islands ahead could not be any clearer. The huge wrought iron gate, encased in stone, that we have passed through to reach this panorama, could provide no greater testament to that fact.
It is only the peninsula and the largest of the islands that appear to have any space at all on them. The other three all appear at this distance to be nothing more than clusters of houses. They are nothing like the houses of home either. There is no dark slate or Kernowek granite here. Although the sun flooding in from behind them makes them appear gold, they are in fact more of a mixture of tan and white.
Silently, I attempt to memorise this image in the vain hope that it will last forever. As the light dies, my eyes do their best to scan every piece of it. What lies before me is more incredible than anything I could ever have dreamed of. Nothing from home, not the palace at Tallakarn, no
t the great gate at Arberth, can compare to what I am seeing here. The scale of achievement, of advancement, hidden away on the other side of this frozen waste, is incredible. The island palace, with its gargantuan golden domes, looks like something that could only exist in the future. But it is not the architecture alone that creates this awestruck emotion, it is the disbelief.
It is the disbelief that this could be an entirely separate civilisation. Before me stands a kingdom that, months ago, I would have said didn’t exist. Even weeks ago, it only existed as a forlorn hope in my desperate mind. The idea that two civilisations could have not only survived but evolved on this frozen island, so isolated, so far apart, seems fantastical to me. I have no idea what awaits – the similarities, the differences – no preconceptions about what to expect. All I possess is the knowledge that, somehow, I have made it. That, somehow, I have reached this place, this utopia, hidden away on the other side of the world. I cast a glance at Morrigan who is wearing as big a smirk as I have ever seen. For once, I am able to return his smile.
Not long after passing through the gate, we are led into the hilltop keep that sits behind it. The entrance hall, made from red stone, is a cavernous room with not many differences to the few squalid guards’ quarters I have seen back home. There is not much here other than doors into other rooms. Piles of armour languish in the far corners whilst the two rows of long wooden tables are probably where the soldiers sit to eat when the castle is fully occupied. We are quickly moved on though, and escorted into a much smaller room.
This room could quite easily be a cell. It also contains nothing but a table and four chairs. Once inside, we are invited to sit and then provided with some much-needed food and drink. The drink is a dark, bitter alcohol with a rich red colour and the meal is strange and rather unpleasant: a stodgy, grainy stew with an almost perfumed taste to it. We wolf it down nevertheless. Our two escorts leave us at this point.
Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale Page 12
