Realm of Mindweavers: Book one: Tales of Golmeira by Marianne Ratcliffe

Author:Marianne Ratcliffe [Ratcliffe, Marianne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Matador
Published: 2017-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

Their good fortune was not to last. A servant came out of the house on whose front steps they were seated and shooed them away. Zastra did not protest, moving off and wandering aimlessly through the city. She was overwhelmed by the size and noise of the place. The paved streets, wet with recent rain, glimmered dimly in the shafts of sunlight that filtered down from the thin strips of sky overhead. The buildings appeared tall to Zastra, almost as tall as the high towers of the castle, but because they were built so close to each other they seemed to lean over her, closing her in. The narrow alleyways were full of people, densely packed. Zastra was used to large numbers of people in the castle, but not herded together as they were in Riverford. In spite of the crowds, there was a strange air of despondency upon the place. Troops of Bractarian and Kyrginite soldiers appeared frequently, marching up and down the main streets; the crowds parting silently and obediently before them. The beating wings of the terrible creature contributed to the dark, fearful mood. Zastra’s were not the only eyes that peered up in concern whenever it passed over the city.

Zastra ducked into the smaller alleyways to try and avoid both the troops and the airborne beast. Riverford was set on a steep hill and Zastra found herself heading sideways across the base of the hill into increasingly narrow streets and alleyways. The imposing grey stone houses gave way to smaller, more ramshackle dwellings, patched with wood and dirty pieces of cloth. The city seemed to age, morphing from tall, upright strength to tired, weatherbeaten facades that looked as if they might fall over at the slightest touch. There were fewer people in these streets. Here and there, a figure would trudge along, head bent, uninterested in their surroundings. This was a poorer part of town, and Zastra was shocked by the appearance of some scrawny children, only partly dressed, some with running sores on their faces. A few beggars, one with opaque, sightless eyes, called out to her, but she hurried past, head bowed. Even the rats looked emaciated and Zastra saw several of them lying dead in the streets. A pungent odour of decay hung in the damp air and foul streams of brown sewage ran down the ever narrowing passageways. A motionless bundle lay in one gutter, covered in gray cloth. Zastra did not dare imagine what horror lay beneath. Doors slammed shut as she passed. The stench grew worse, the heavy atmosphere causing Zastra to cough and she turned to head up the hill, desperate to rise above the foul miasma. A woman peered out of a window directly above them, stopping herself just as she was about to empty a bucket onto the open street. A splash of reddish liquid landed just in front of Zastra’s boot.

‘Sorry love,’ the woman muttered and then, looking around her, she whispered cryptically, ‘get out while you can, my dear – this is no place for littluns, or anyone else for that matter.

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