The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘You sure you want to come last?’ Pedrin said to Briony. ‘The soldiers will be here mighty quick!’

  She nodded and flapped her hand. ‘Go! Go!’

  ‘The goats’ll be here to protect you,’ Pedrin said awkwardly, then he too climbed up onto the fallen log, careful not to pull too hard on the rope in case he caused the others to overbalance. He had both the saddlebags slung over his shoulders, which made movement a little awkward, but he had wanted to relieve Durrik of his burden, recognising how difficult the crossing would be for the crippled boy.

  Pedrin glanced along the log. Lisandre was still moving very slowly, shuffling her feet along, one arm hooked over the rope as she used her other hand to haul herself along. Even hampered with his crutch and weak, crooked leg, Durrik was quickly gaining ground on her, while nimble-footed Mags was close behind. Pedrin silently urged Lisandre to hurry up, while casting another anxious look back the other way.

  The soldiers were running up the hill, though they were finding the narrow, rocky path hard going in their high-heeled boots and heavy armour. Pedrin gave a grim little smile as he saw more than one stumble and trip. Then he concentrated on his own feet, for the mossy log was very slippery and angled down slightly with the occasional broken branch to negotiate.

  A terrified scream rang out. The rope jerked wildly. Pedrin clung on desperately, looking quickly along the log. His heart moved sharply in his breast. Lisandre had slipped and fallen. She was clinging tightly to a dead branch, her lower body immersed in the foaming river. He could see her white terrified face, and Sedgely kneeling to try and reach her, and Durrik frozen where he stood, staring down at her. She was right below him and as Pedrin watched, she let go one arm so she could reach up to him.

  ‘Your crutch!’ Pedrin screamed. ‘Durrik, reach out with your crutch!’

  Durrik did not move. Shouting at him, begging him, Pedrin hauled himself down the slippery log. Mags was hurrying along as frantically. She reached Durrik’s side and seized the crutch from him, leaning over as far as she could, the crutch stretched out in her hand. They were all shouting desperately at Lisandre, but it was too late. She had lost her hold. Pedrin watched in sick horror as she plunged down into the river, her screaming face disappearing beneath the water.

  Pedrin felt a cry force its way up from the very depths of his being. He threw off the saddlebags, tossing them to Mags, and then he dived forward off the log. The river swallowed him. He was shocked by its power. At once all the breath was pummelled out of him, his body was churned round and round, over and over, tumbling head over heels till he was unable to tell which way was up, which way was down. It felt as if the river had thrown him into a dark sack and was beating him with a stick. He was blind, deaf, panicked, water forcing its way down into his lungs.

  The next second he was flung upwards. His head broke the surface and he managed to take a few ragged breaths before he was again sucked down. Something hard banged into him. He groped out and managed to grab something made of cloth. It ripped in his hand, but he had managed to seize Lisandre’s arm, and then her waist. He held on grimly. Again his head broke through and he struggled to drag Lisandre up as well. She was limp in his arm and incredibly heavy. He looked about desperately, realising they were caught in the maelstrom below the waterfall. He got a whirling glimpse of Mags and Durrik stretching out their hands to him, but they were six or more feet above him. Then he saw Sedgely on his knees on the cliff-edge, throwing down what looked like another dead tree.

  The splash it made swamped him. Pedrin went down again, swallowing water. All he could do was cling on to Lisandre. His vision was filled with swirling, hissing foam. His skull felt like it was about to explode. With an enormous effort, Pedrin kicked his legs, straining upwards. Though his arms ached and the muscles of his legs screamed, he managed to bring both their heads above water. He flung out one hand, caught the thorny end of the dead tree and heaved himself into its branches. There he and Lisandre hung, the starkin princess lying white and limp in his arms, her eyes closed. Pedrin’s breath rasped in his throat.

  Sedgely began to drag them up. Pedrin vomited up a gush of vile-tasting water, then closed his eyes for a moment, coughing weakly. He managed to catch his breath and at once bent over Lisandre, queasy with dread. Her cheeks were icy cold, completely colourless. Her head lolled on her neck. He could not tell whether she was breathing. With one arm hooked through the branches and the other supporting her weight, he could do nothing but press his face against the tree and pray to Lullalita, the goddess of water and grief and lost causes, to spare her.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sedgely, Durrik and Mags were all there on the shore, working together to drag them higher. Pedrin was so exhausted he could do nothing but cling to the branch. As the dead tree was hauled over the edge of the cliff, he let go and fell back to the ground in a sort of faint. He felt Durrik lean over him, calling his name and he managed to sit up, hanging his head forward between his arms.

  ‘Is she dead?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Sedgely’s pumping water out of her.’

  Pedrin sat up more strongly, looking around. He saw Lisandre lying on her stomach on the ground, while Sedgely knelt beside her, his hands gently pumping together in the middle of her back. Lisandre suddenly vomited up a big rush of water. Sedgely sat back and let her lift herself to her hands and knees, so she could vomit again. When at last she was finished she laid her head back down on her hands, crying softly. Pedrin was all choked up with tears himself. He watched Sedgely pat her gently, murmuring something in his deep, low voice, and then put his head back down on his knees.

  ‘No thanks to you,’ he muttered.

  Durrik leant closer. ‘What?’

  ‘I said, “no thanks to you”. Lisandre could’ve drowned and it would’ve been all your fault. Why didn’t you stretch down your crutch to her?’

  Durrik sat back and looked away, biting his lip. He was clutching his crutch close to his chest. He made a motion as if about to speak, just as Pedrin too opened his mouth again. Their words clashed, drowning each other, and both boys stopped, frustrated.

  Suddenly Pedrin remembered the soldiers. Adrenaline surged through his body. He scrambled to his feet, looking about him wildly.

  Briony was running lightly and easily across the fallen log, her sack slung over her one shoulder, the coil of rope over the other. The goats were close at her heels, not at all troubled by the slipperiness of the moss or the narrowness of the trunk. The soldiers were all at the other end of the log, milling around uncertainly. They certainly did not wish to follow in their boots and armour, with the last light fading quickly and no rope to guide them. One of the soldiers gave a quick gesture, and six of the soldiers went down on one knee and raised their fusilliers.

  ‘Briony! Snowflake!’ Pedrin screamed. ‘Run!’

  He covered his eyes.

  A spine-chilling cry rose high above the roar of the waterfall. All the hairs on Pedrin’s arms stood straight up. He had never heard such a sound. Trembling in every limb, his shoulders hunching in an instinctive motion of protection, he looked up through his hands.

  An immense, bat-winged creature was plummeting down from the cliffs. In the dusk it was just a shadow among other shadows, except for its face, which was illuminated from below by the red flames leaping from its mouth. It was a thin, cruel face, black-skinned, with slitted eyes and red, flaring nostrils. Two small, sharp horns rose from its forehead, and its ears were very long and pointed, rising from a magnificent golden mane that flowed down onto its powerful shoulders.

  Pedrin did not need to see the rest of its body to know what it looked like, although he had never before seen one and knew no-one who had. It was a grogoyle, a creature out of legend. With the face and wings of a bat, the body of a lion, and the tail of a giant scorpion, the grogoyle was the most dangerous of any of the wildkin. Even without the cruel, po
isonous sting of its tail and its fiery breath, the grogoyle would be deadly, for it moved with incredible speed and agility and its sheathed claws were tipped with poison.

  The soldiers had seen it coming too, and had raised their fusilliers against it. Again and again the starkin weapons spat blue lightning, but the grogoyle easily evaded their fire, tilting its wings up and twisting its graceful body. Before the soldiers had time to refuel, the grogoyle had struck. Some soldiers fell shrieking, enveloped in flames. Others were crushed below the immense body as the grogoyle landed with a thump that jarred the tree-bridge and caused it to slowly slide over the edge and into the foaming river. Others were stung by the darting tail, falling like stones, paralysed and in agony. Others were tumbled about by the heavy paws, the poison-tipped claws unsheathed and ripping apart armour like paper. The children crouched on the far shore could only watch, horrified and mesmerised, as the grogoyle destroyed the entire squad of soldiers in just a few seconds.

  Briony and the goats had barely managed to leap to the shore in time and Snowflake, in the rear, would have fallen into the river if Briony had not caught her collar and hauled her to safety. Now Briony sat shivering on the very edge of the cliff, her face buried in Snowflake’s shaggy white coat, listening to the screams of the soldiers slowly fade away.

  Pedrin staggered to his feet. ‘Come on!’ he cried, his voice so hoarse the words barely came out. ‘We got to get out of here!’

  He caught up the saddlebags, half-dragged Lisandre to her feet, and began to run into the forest, whistling to the goats, who bounded past him with golden eyes wide in terror. Sick with fear and horror, exhausted and trembling in every limb, they all stumbled into the forest, expecting to hear the flap of leathery wings falling upon them, and that spine-chilling shriek of triumphant glee echoing in their ears. They heard nothing but the crash of their own headlong race through the forest, however, and saw nothing but the black entanglement of branch and vine and thorn that slashed their faces, tripped their feet and stabbed their flesh.

  Soon Pedrin had to stop, panting. He was still holding on to Lisandre’s hand and she was clinging to him tightly, trembling violently and trying to stifle her tears.

  ‘This is stupid,’ Pedrin said angrily. ‘We’ll all be lost in the forest. We’ll have to call out, find the others.’

  ‘But . . . that thing! That thing . . . will . . . hear us.’

  ‘If the grogoyle wanted us, it would’ve found us by now,’ Pedrin said, only half-believing his own words. He peered through the darkness, but could see no-one. He tried to disengage his hand from Lisandre so he could cup his mouth to call, but she would not let go. He realised she was dripping wet and shivering so much her teeth were chattering. Gently he made her sit down and took his blanket out of his saddlebag and wrapped it about her shoulders. She gripped his hand in both of her small, cold, wet ones. ‘You saved my life,’ she said with great difficulty. ‘I thank you.’

  Overcome with embarrassment and pleasure, he muttered something in return and stepped away, calling out, ‘Durrik, Briony! Sedgely! Where are you?’ At first he dared not call too loudly but then anxiety sharpened the edge in his voice. Then he heard Durrik’s voice, shouting in response, his voice high in alarm. He called back, heady with relief, and Durrik and Mags came blundering to the spot where he and Lisandre were huddled. Then the goats and Briony came running in, Snowflake bleating in joy. The friends all embraced, their faces wet with tears of relief, pounding each other’s backs.

  ‘Sedgely?’ Pedrin asked. ‘Anyone seen Sedgely?’

  But there was no sign of the old man. The five children huddled together, too frightened to make a fire. They had no food left but Pedrin managed to bend his stiff, cold fingers enough to milk Snowflake, so they were able to comfort themselves with her warm, sweet milk and fall asleep at last, too worn out by the exertions of the day to even think about posting a watch.

  It was a cold, misty morning when Pedrin woke. His wet clothes had stiffened in the night so he felt that he was clad in steel-cold armour and all his joints ached. He sat up, groaning, then suddenly realised that he smelt wood smoke. The very whiff of it was comforting and when he looked around and saw Sedgely was feeding a fire with kindling, and that his pail was hanging over the fire with something bubbling inside, Pedrin could have wept with relief and happiness.

  ‘Oh, Sedgely, I’m mighty glad to see you,’ he said and shuffled forward to give the old man a little punch in the shoulder and to see what was in the pail.

  ‘I couldn’t find much,’ Sedgely said. ‘’Tis just milk and honey and some herbs, but at least it’ll warm your innards. Shouldn’t have slept in your wet clothes, you’ll catch your death, you will.’

  Pedrin grinned and took the cup of hot milk the old man poured him, sipping it gratefully. He looked round and saw the others all sleeping together like a litter of puppies, huddled under the two blankets. The goats were lying contentedly back to back, though both had their heads raised to watch and listen.

  ‘How did you find us?’

  The old man’s shaggy white moustache twitched. ‘Followed your trail,’ he said laconically. ‘Good thing no other wildkin seem to live hereabouts because it was a good mile wide. Found you all sleeping sweet and foolish as babes.’

  Pedrin coloured hotly. He spread his hands to the warmth of the fire and said nothing.

  ‘Too much to hope I’m the only creature to see your trail,’ Sedgely said. ‘Though if a grogoyle has taken it into its head to roost hereabouts, mebbe all t’other wildkin have fled. Wise, really. We should too, is me advice. Not that I expect you to . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ Pedrin said earnestly, laughing despite himself. ‘’Tis very good advice. We’ll listen and obey, I promise.’

  Briony was stirring sleepily. She sat up suddenly and looked about her, and smiled widely at the sight of Sedgely. The smile completely transformed her face, making her almost pretty. He smiled back at her and slipped again into his grumble, all the while pouring her a cup of hot milk and exhorting her to drink it up. By the time she had finished the others were all awake too. As they quickly packed up the blankets and doused the fire, they all talked excitedly about the day before.

  ‘What was that thing? I’ve never seen aught like it!’

  ‘’Twas a grogoyle, and deadly dangerous ’tis too.’

  ‘Did you see how it stung with its tail? Horrible!’

  ‘Why didn’t it come after us? Had it enough to eat with all those soldiers?’

  ‘It didn’t seem to want to eat them, just kill them all.’ Mags gave a shiver of delicious horror.

  ‘Do you think it was the grogoyle that you sensed watching us, Briony?’ Durrik said, still very wan-faced and weary-looking.

  She shrugged and nodded. ‘I think so. Though if it was a-watching us the whole time, why didn’t it attack us?’

  ‘Mebbe it just doesn’t like starkin,’ Sedgely said.

  Colour rose in Lisandre’s cheeks and she said defensively, ‘Well, if it doesn’t like starkin, why didn’t it attack me?’ And then she shot a look at the crippled boy and said, with rather a cruel edge to her voice, ‘And Durrik, for that matter?’

  Durrik coloured and turned away. Presented with the sight of his back, the shirt all stained with ugly brown lines, the disdainful anger on Lisandre’s face faded and she looked troubled and even remorseful. Everyone else felt awkward too, unable to forget how Durrik had crouched motionless on the log, Lisandre stretching her hand up to him desperately. Mags shot Lisandre an angry, resentful look and followed after Durrik, though she did not speak.

  Sedgely continued comfortably, ‘Mebbe ’tis just soldiers it don’t like. Don’t ask me, little missy, I don’t know how a grogoyle’s mind works. Come, stop your a-blathering and let’s be on our way. I mislike the quietness of this forest. Seems to me ’tis too quiet!’

  All day they walked in single file through the damp, gloomy forest. Without the river to guide them, the children all felt ra
ther vulnerable. Pedrin in particular did his best to fix various landmarks in his memory in case they became lost or were separated again. Within the green gloom of the trees, however, it was impossible. Everything looked the same under the tangled canopy of vines and leaves, and the paths were uncertain, meandering through the ferns and saplings, round bulging rocks and twisted tree-roots, and petering out near the dens of various small animals.

  In the grey dusk of the evening they wearily made camp near a small stream. Sedgely and Pedrin cast their fishing lines to try and catch some fish while the others searched through the forest for birds’ eggs, fruit, nuts, roots, wild grains, vegetables and anything else they could find. The need to forage was a constant drag on their progress, and so they hoped to find enough to keep them going for several days.

  By the time they rolled themselves in their blankets to sleep, pleasantly full and very tired indeed, a string of fish hung above the fire to smoke and two round loaves of bread, made from laboriously ground wild grains, were stowed away in Pedrin’s saddlebags. Although it had been hard work, everyone felt a warm sense of satisfaction and camaraderie.

  ‘Another week or so and we’ll be at the Evenlinn,’ Sedgely said as he crossed his hands over his stomach, his nose pointing to the stars. ‘That is, if we don’t run into any boo-bogeys.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Pedrin opened his eyes and stretched, wondering what had woken him. It was almost dawn, the trees black against a pewter-coloured sky. Mist was rising from the pool but through the drifting tendrils he could see Thundercloud standing guard over someone cowering on the ground. The billy-goat’s horns were lowered menacingly and he was rumbling deep in his throat.

  ‘What happened? Who is it?’ Pedrin asked rather stupidly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Thundercloud looked back at him, lifting his black lip, then butted the cowering figure with his long, sharp horns. She whimpered and huddled closer to the ground.