Finding the Stars: Erythleh Chronicles, #3

By Catherine Johnson

For years, Athine stood firm with the rest of her countrymen, defending their home, their way of life, from the brutal invading army.  Even when that way of life changed out of all recognition, twisted by the pressure of living through constant battles and sieges, the people of Litt never gave up hope that they would win, that they would reclaim their country as their own.

Cael joined the army of Felthiss voluntarily, he thought it would be a way to see the world, an exciting life, a way to escape the monotonous drudgery of life as a farmer.  In some ways, it was never a disappointment, but there were some aspects of army life that he hadn't bargained for. He's the consummate soldier, very good at doing what he's told to do, but he isn't a heartless drone.

Litt inevitably falls to the might of Felthiss, but the viciousness of the war leaves scars on both sides.

Athine's choice of sanctuary leads to an encounter that forces her to run again. Only this time, someone is giving chase.  

She's searching for a new life, although she knows that safety and stability are too much to ask for. 

Cael is looking to punish the person who endangered his dearest friends, who also happen to be the leaders of Felthiss, people that he's sworn to protect.  

Their tale twists and turns through their adventures. Hatred and prejudice give way to a grudging respect, but if they want more, they'll have to heal their wounds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catherine Johnson
• Release date: Oct 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781524281090

Catherine Johnson

Catherine Johnson is a screenwriter and bestselling author of several books for children and young adults. Shortlisted for the 2020 UKLA Book Awards, Race to the Frozen North is a perennial bestseller with sales of over 40,000 to date. Her acclaimed novel Sawbones won the Young Quills Award for Historical Fiction, and The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo was nominated for the CILIP Carnegie Medal and the YA Book Prize. Catherine is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature.

Book preview

Chapter One

Athine gagged on the stench of the burning bodies. She tugged at the thin scarf around her throat, becoming almost frantic when the material refused to give, until she had pulled enough slack for her to cover her mouth and nose with the clumsily knitted, coarse wool; it didn't help. The scent had coated the back of her nose and throat like tar; she couldn't unsmell it now. It wasn't the first time she'd been tormented by the smell, or the second, or the tenth. She'd lost count of the number of fires, but she never got used to the smell. The pyres were a depressingly regular necessity. They had no room to bury their dead, and fire was the only surety against disease. Every time she cooked meat over the feeble hearth fire, although that happened so rarely these days, she was reminded of these immense flaming pyres.

Her appetite, which she had thought to be at the forefront of her mind an hour before, had diminished now to nothing. It wasn't just the smell, it was thought of the food that awaited her. There was precious little in the way of supplies available these days. Cottrill was a city under siege, and it had been so for almost year. They had established means to smuggle in goods, weapons, people, food, and small livestock, but the invading Felthissian army had done a thorough job of uncovering their allies and routes, and had destroyed them all, brutally. Thankfully, they hadn't yet been able to cut off the supply of fresh water from the underground reservoir. If they had been able to disrupt the supply, or poison it, the siege would have ended long since.

The pyre was still burning, but Athine turned for what passed as home now, a half-demolished house that she shared with five others. No one had time to give the proper respect to the dead. There had been too many, too much loss. A tide of it had washed sympathy away in never-ending waves of numbness. The fire would continue to burn, as the living continued to live.

In her darker moments, Athine wondered who it was that she was becoming. The person she had thought she was, the person who had lived her life before, was someone that she no longer recognised. That happy innocent girl who had laughed and loved with Larn in their cottage in the North was not the person who could hack away an infected limb, who could end a person afflicted with plague with a knife to the spine, motivated by equal amounts of pity and self-preservation. That girl would not have known which herbs to mix with green potatoes to bring on a sickness to help a mother lose her unborn child, so that it would not be birthed into the poverty of war. That innocent girl would never have lied or stolen to make sure her own belly was full before others. That girl would have died rather than put herself before her comrades, but that girl was dead.

Sometimes, Athine imagined that she had died. She could see in her mind's eye, quite clearly, the moment that her heart had been pierced by a Felthissian arrow. It was strange to her that she couldn't feel that wound now. It was odd that people still greeted her as if she were still there. She was a ghost now, she knew that. She haunted the life she had left. She fought with vigour, when it was called for, but she was little more than a spectre.

She would catch herself longing for those days of naiveté, when she had taken each coming day for granted, when she had assumed that she had a future, and had thought she'd known what that future would be. Each day had had its petty complications and frustrations, but there was nothing that she wouldn't give not to suffer those again. She would have traded anything to be able to be mad at Larn for leaving a household chore unfinished, or for distracting her with kisses when she was trying to get something done. The times that she had batted him away with impatient words brought bile to her throat now.

It had been years since she'd last seen their cottage. No doubt it was burned to the ground now. Anything of any value that they'd left behind would have long since been stolen. Athine swiped at a rebellious tear with the back of her hand, and pulled the cowl of her cloak further over head, painting her face with dark shadows. She trudged through the streets with her head down. When she and Larn had first moved to the city of Cottrill, camaraderie and bravado had been thick in the air. Many had moved into the capital, as the Felthissian army had gained ground, hoping to find safety from the marauding soldiers behind the high city walls. In return for that safety, they had willingly volunteered to fight. Everyone had been so certain that their enemy would realise that they could not win and would slink off home. They'd been so wrong.

No one had expected a war with Felthiss. The arrival of enemy forces had been a terrible and horrific shock, and it had taken some time for the reason for their sudden presence to become known. There had been no negotiations between rulers, just the sudden arrival of hostile troops intent on quelling all forms of resistance. Once the rumours had begun to circulate, that Felthiss needed Litten gold to fill their coffers, Athine had known that they were fighting a losing battle. Larn, an eternal optimist, had hung his head and cursed every Felthissian that drew breath.

Athine and Larn had arrived in Cottrill during the summer months, when the food stores had been well stocked, and the fields had been bursting with produce to be ferried into the city. Their supplies had seemed endless, even as the winter had set in, bringing with it the Felthissian encampment beyond the walls, and the beginning of the siege. So far, Athine had survived a full year. She'd seen those stocks dwindle to thin air, and she had seen the way that hunger could make comrades turn viciously on each other.

Larn hadn't lived to see that day. Her husband had been taken in the third wave of sickness to sweep the city. The first had been the result of too many people packed together, and a lack of consideration for proper sanitation. Vomiting and diarrhoea wracked victims until, devoid of all bodily fluids, their husks gave up the spark of life. Refugees brought a virulent influenza with them, which was nourished by the damp spring air. Anyone left weakened from the ordeal of the first sickness was soon taken by the second. Just as the residents of Cottrill thought they had overcome their internal strife, some unwitting unfortunate had then carried the Plague into their sanctuary.

Without a sufficient diet, and with no medicinal supplies, the losses had been grievous. Larn had died writhing in agony, covered with puss-filled blisters, and without any meagre relief for his pain. Athine had kept a careful watch over him. She had cleared away the detritus of the blisters, she had soothed his fevered brow, and had pleaded with him not to leave her alone in this unfamiliar world. He had abandoned her, regardless of her entreaties.

Athine reached the remains of the place she called home. Two of the other tenants were the original owners, who had welcomed her and Larn with open arms. They had banded together to protect themselves when the refugees had arrived. Driven by desperation and hunger, the newcomers had not always shown the politeness expected when requesting a meal or a bed. Until a military guard had been formed and a curfew enforced, it had seemed as though Felthiss had only to wait until the Littens all killed each other.

The three other men that shared their home had proven themselves honourable, and equally ferocious in the defence of their lodgings. Athine knew she'd been taking a risk, going to the pyre by herself, but she had fought beside Dalf for the better part of the time she'd been in Cottrill. He'd deserved someone to mourn him. She hadn't asked anyone to accompany her, because she was simply beyond caring. Since she'd watched the light fade from Dalf's eyes, she could no longer say that she knew what she was surviving for, let alone fighting for. If someone wanted to slit her throat for her cloak, then so be it.

She'd barely pushed open the door before Merith was in front of her.Where have you been? We've been worried sick!

Let the girl be, woman. She can take care of herself.

If Merith was Athine's substitute mother, then Dev was her father, Since Athine's own parents had died before she'd married Larn, it had been both a source of comfort and frustration to find herself at the mercy of the couple's well-intended concern.

She's half the size of the brutes out there. Merith's tone was furious. Skill with a bow means nothing in those narrow streets. And lookit, she didn't even take her bow with her. A quiver of arrows, now at least you can stab a body with those, but she hasn't anything...

She has her knife. Dev turned to look at her. Don't you, dear?

Athine nodded. She tried to speak, but coughed. The ashes from the pyre still snagged her voice. She moved the folds of her cloak out of the way and patted her hip, where her long knife rested in the sheath attached to her belt. The term suggested a short implement, and yet sword did also not seem like quite the right definition. Her blade was somewhere in between the two. It was almost the length of her thigh. The hilt and pommel were carved from the horn of an old buck, and had been fashioned into the likeness of a grimacing skull. Larn's family had been Aelddean in origin. Although he could never join those secretive ranks, having not been born on the isle of Aelda, his family had still cherished their heirlooms. When he'd first become sick, he had passed the blade to Athine, and had made her swear never to be without it.

Can't use a bow in close quarters, Athine croaked. Never enough room to draw back in the streets.

Instead of nagging her about weapons, why don't you get the girl a drink? She's clearly parched. Dev waved his wife towards the kitchen, and followed her through the doorway. He was clearly not convinced that if he didn't watch her fetch a mug of water, Merith would stand in Athine's way and continue haranguing her.

Freed from the confrontation, Athine unfastened her cloak and shrugged it off. She put it up on the set of hooks by the door. She knew it needed washing, it was still stiff and gritty in places with Dalf's blood, but it was cold, and they had no wood for a fire. If she washed it, it would take days to dry, and she needed it too badly to be without it.

I'd have come with you, if you'd said, Evren commented from the stool by the cold and empty hearth.

Athine shrugged. She had no explanation or apology. Frith? Welld? She coughed again, having to hold her hand to her chest against the violence of the spasm.

Merith came hurrying out of the kitchen. Here child, drink this. She pressed a chipped pottery mug of water into Athine's hand. The liquid was icy, and the perfect remedy for her throat. She tried to drink it slowly.

When she tried to speak, her voice was her own again. Thank you, Mer. She turned back to Evren. Where are Frith and Welld?

Out.

Scavenging?

Call it what you will, Evren shrugged. They're hoping to return with our next meal.

Athine wanted to protest. She wanted to find her moral indignation that their housemates were out stealing food from someone less able to protect what they had, depriving them of their own means to survive. But there wasn't enough to go around, not by any stretch of the imagination.

How long have they been gone?

They left not long after you. It was Dev who answered. Who knows how long they'll be.

We should go looking for them. Athine handed the cup back to Merith and went for her cloak.

Why? Evren asked, but he had risen, and was heading to collect his own cloak, too.

I've been up on the ramparts. There were a lot of men arriving at that sham fort, then everything went quiet. They're planning something.

Theen, Evren sighed. We've been over this. Crall doesn't think the fort is anything other than lodgings.

Crall is a fool, Athine spat as she slung her cloak around her shoulders. If he was any kind of leader, we'd be beating the Felthissian cunts back, instead of waiting behind our walls for them to find us dead of starvation and disease. She picked up her quiver from its resting place against the wall, and fastened it to her thigh. She didn't bother slinging her bow over her shoulder; she had a feeling deep in her bones that she would need to use it soon.

We should march out to meet them? Evren asked.

No, we should find a way to surprise them. But I fear that they will already have found a way to surprise us.

I'm coming with you. Dev was already fixing his sword belt in place.

No. Athine shook her head. You should stay here. If we don't find the others, they'll come back here. If we do find them, we'll be gone for some time. We can't afford to leave Mer, or the house, unprotected for too long. Athine had had too many close encounters with some of their less chivalrous neighbours to want to leave the older woman unprotected.

I should be fighting. Dev sounded torn, but Athine knew he would stay with his wife.

It won't make a difference. Athine paused with her hand on the handle of the open door. Evren was already waiting in the street. We can't hold them off much longer. We've no defences left, hardly any arrows, no oil, barely anyone with any will to fight. The city will fall before the new moon. The best we can hope for is to get out of it alive. You remember the route I showed you?

Yes. Dev nodded his stout head. I remember.

Good. Don't wait for me. If I'm on the walls when they attack, the chances are that I won't make it back.

Don't talk like that... Merith tried to interrupt.

No. Athine cut her off. Don't wait for me. Keep yourselves safe at all costs. Do you hear?

Yes. Dev put his arm around his wife, in comfort as much as restraint. Fight well.

We've no other choice, Athine said, as she closed the door.

Evren had been waiting patiently for her, several steps away. Where do you want to start looking for them?

In the south quarter, Athine said. They'll likely have been through the rest of the city. They'll have gone where they had the greatest chance of success.

Evren nodded his agreement, and together they set off through the filthy streets. Hardly anyone was about. There was no business to conduct, no shopping to be done, no trade, no gossip, no school, to draw people from their hiding holes. A day when they weren't beating back the invaders from the walls was a day to rest. No one had any time, energy, or inclination to work on the repairs to the city, even if they had had the materials to spare. Broken windows remained smashed, loose tiles were left hanging, rotten signs outside shops and offices creaked on rusted chains. In the dark days of winter, the city looked more like a place of purgatory than home.

Athine suspected that Frith and Welld would be taking their chances in the southern quarter of the city. It was the remaining bastion of what had passed for the upper classes of Cottrill. Most of the soft-handed, round-bellied fiscally elite had fled, or been killed, or made destitute, but there were some remaining, and they had made the southern sector their enclave. They had the goods to trade, and the contacts, to keep stockpiles of weapons and food. It was the place you were most likely to find a meal, and the place you were most likely to be killed finding it.

They were silent as they trudged through the city, but they did not keep their heads down. Evren, like Athine, was constantly scanning the streets and the shadowy nooks between buildings.

You should have said goodbye to them, Evren said after a while.

I know, Athine replied. I've known since I woke that this will be our last day. She and Evren had often shared an uncanny knack of knowing when an attack was imminent. They had discussed in hushed tones that morning their shared feeling that the Felthissians would make a big push before dark. They'd taken their concerns to Crall, who had dismissed them. The Felthissians appeared quiet; they were probably stymied by the cold winter, he'd reasoned. They would not attack for days.

Athine and Evren had left Crall's house in despondent disgust. The Felthissians had been in Litt for years now; they were no longer caught unawares by the deep snows and winds so cold that they could strip exposed flesh until it bled. Crall was underestimating them. Athine and Evren had both fought their share of battles, and had developed a fatalistic realism about the war. The trained soldiers from Litt's army were long dead. All that remained to defend the city was the dregs of a poorly organised, poorly trained militia.

Crall was no military man; he'd been the head of the Sentries. In the time before, the Sentries had been a group of old men, retired army veterans mostly, who spent as much time gossiping and reminiscing about the good old days as they did wandering the streets of Cottrill after dark to make sure there were no nefarious happenings afoot. They both knew that Crall was not capable of leading them to survival, let alone victory, but he was all they had as a leader. The people of the city were stubbornly clinging to what they knew from their old life. Any suggestion for change had been loudly shouted down.

Do you think Dev and Mer'll make it to the sewer? Evren asked.

I hope so, Athine replied. I've shown them the way repeatedly. But I think they're too damn stubborn to leave that old house. I think they'll wait for us, but I hope they don't.

She'd shown them the way to the sewers, where all the smaller tunnels throughout the city converged into a larger one that ran out under the city walls, on the opposite side of Cottrill to the Felthissian camp. It was barely wide enough for a man to crouch in, but it was big enough for two people to hide in, if they lay still, and kept quiet, and waited patiently until the foreigners had finished ransacking the city. Athine had never followed the tunnel to its end, she had no idea if it was possible to escape the city that way, and she wasn't sure why she'd never tried. Maybe it was partly due to the stifling, suffocating, never-ending darkness, but maybe it was that she couldn't shed the ties of the last dregs of duty to the city.

Me, too. Evren looked over at her. Think we'll make it back?

Athine stopped walking and looked at him. No. And I don't think I want to. I don't want to live as a prisoner.

Me, neither, Evren agreed.

They had a moment of pure understanding that they would both die in the coming fight, one way or another. They would either be fatally injured by the attackers, or, if their wounds were debilitating but not fatal, they would help each other escape the fate they wished to avoid. All that they couldn't say in words was said in the time that passed between their eyes, until the moment was broken by the hollow clanging of the War Bell, the signal that they were under attack once more.

Leaving Frith and Welld to their own successes or failures, Evren and Athine both turned sharply, and began to jog through the streets. Doors opened and people flooded into the grimy day, tugging on cloaks, shouldering weapons, and fastening sword belts as they moved. The empty streets were filled with a ragtag stream, heading for the ramparts.

Athine and Evren were two of the few who were still moving swiftly when they reached the steep steps to the battlements. Most slowed, too beaten down to make the effort of speed anymore. When they reached the top, they were greeted with the sight of a phalanx of Felthissian archers setting up, just beyond the no man's land created by the range of the arrows on both sides.

That's such a small party. Why are they even wasting the effort? Evren muttered as they found suitable places to take their stand.

I don't know, Athine said, nocking an arrow to her bow and drawing back. She let it fly. It landed paces short of their attackers. She was out of range. She didn't nock another arrow; she didn't have enough to spare. But I wouldn't mind knowing where the rest of the bastards are.

The Felthissians loosed their own volley of arrows. They had access to actual fletchers, and superior materials. Their arrows could fly faster and further. The cloud of wickedly sharp death soared over the ramparts. Athine and Evren ducked at the last moment, but two people behind them were not so observant. Athine heard the cries as they were hit, but she did not bother to look round to see who it was.

They didn't rise again, but peeked between the uprights of the battlements. There was nothing they could do until the Felthissians ventured closer.

I have a bad feeling about this, Athine murmured.

Me, too, Evren replied. Me, too.

Chapter Two

Cael generally prided himself on not being afraid of silly things. He liked spiders just fine, had no problems with rats or mice, and didn't mind the dark any more than he minded the daylight, but he did not like enclosed spaces. He would never have admitted it, but when Jorrell had first suggested the idea of tunnelling under the walls of Cottrill, Cael's heart had skipped several beats.

The plan was a necessity. The walls were old, thick, and well-formed. They were impossible to destroy. There seemed to be some fairly proficient archers in Cottrill, so the En Dek and their gryphons were, for the present, grounded. There was no way through, or over, so the army was going under to get in the city and end the siege that had been dragging on for far too long.

Cael was willing to admit some admiration for the people of Cottrill. They'd beaten back the superior Felthissian army again, and again, and again. However, as he was now hunched over and huddling through the airless cavern that stank sharply of turned earth, with withering roots tapping against his helmet, he was ready to kill any Litten he came across, simply on the principle that if the stubborn bastards had surrendered, then he wouldn't currently be in a coffin of dirt, having to measure his breathing.

Jorrell, his General, his commanding officer and best friend, was in front, leading the way for the attack force. He wouldn't be first to break through the earth on the other side, nor would Cael, but they would be in the first wave of soldiers to spew out of the cave they had created. The plan was to take the people of Cottrill by surprise. The Felthissian archers had been wearing the Litten troops down all day. They had been firing volleys of arrows, and venturing forward, just enough to make the Littens think they were in range, enough to give them the confidence to waste more of their own precious ammunition, but not enough to suffer more than a handful of casualties.

Jorrell certainly didn't seem bothered by the tunnel. He was larger than Cael, taller, and wider through the shoulders, although not by much. There was no possible way he could have been any more comfortable with his back bent at a crippling angle, but he was showing no sign of apprehension. Jorrell was all cold determination on this night. Cael knew his friend was seething with anger, and that he was ready to unleash that rage on the unwitting soldiers that they were about to face.

Felthiss had suffered some heavy losses during the long years of fighting, and Jorrell seemed to hold every Litten that he met personally responsible for every Felthissian who had died. Cael was slightly more ambivalent; after all, Felthiss had inflicted its fair share of pain and death on the innocent country that it had invaded, but this war should have been ended long ago, and Cael was ready to see it done. He'd do whatever was necessary to be finished with this duty and be on to the next assignment.

He and Jorrell had become friends on their first day in the Felthissian army. They had bonded over the brutal treatment from their superiors that was designed to break their spirits. They'd survived such treatment more than once together, and now they were all but inseparable. Cael had joined the army to escape the mundane repetition of his life as a farmer's son, and to see the world. He hadn't expected to find a brother, but he and Jorrell shared a closer bond than he had with any of his blood family.

Jorrell had been promoted ahead of Cael, but Cael had never been jealous. Jorrell was more educated, and if not more worldly, then more politically-minded. Cael thought his friend had been a good choice for General, and whenever Jorrell got a promotion, he brought Cael up with him. It was a partnership that both sides were satisfied with, and it worked extremely well.

Finally, just as Cael was beginning to wonder if he had the fortitude to continue to endure, they reached the blessed end of the torture. He and Jorrell flattened themselves against the gritty walls as the last members of the digging party, armed with picks and shovels, got ready to break through the last layer of dirt. Twenty men were stacked closely behind them, ready to push through and up into the city as soon as the ground was breached. If the size of the tunnel itself wasn't bad enough, the press of so many stinking bodies in the small space threatened to be Cael's undoing, but he caught Jorrell's eye, and his friend's bitter resolve gave him an anchor to hold to, to keep his temper and his sanity.

It seemed to take a lifetime, but finally, thankfully, came the signal that they were through. The oppressive press in the tunnel grew to an intolerable level as everyone moved forward, and then, like a pent-up breath released, the first men streamed into the city of Cottrill. Sword and dagger drawn, Cael followed behind Jorrell, almost close enough to snag his cloak. They clambered up and up and out into the streets of the city, and they slew anyone that came to meet them.

~o0o~

There was no snow in the city. That was the first thing that had struck Cael, when he had been able to stop and think. He realised it was because the heat of so many people living so closely together, walking through the same lanes, over and over, every day had crushed and melted any snowfall to nothing. No mean feat in such a northern country.

The fighting had not ended, but the first wave was exhausted, and the Littens were all but defeated. They were out-armoured, out-weaponed, and outmatched. Cael had been surprised, verging on horrified, to see that they had been fighting only civilians. The army that had held them at bay was made up of ordinary people. Cael knew that they'd been facing soldiers at first, but it seemed that these last few months they'd been fighting a militia, ordinary people trying to preserve their way of life. These people had nothing, and the Felthissian army had taken the last of what they didn't have from them.

Jorrell's plan had worked perfectly. The skirmishes during the day had done their job. In fact, they hadn't only tired the Littens, they had all but exhausted their energy and weapons. Cael wondered if they might not have seen a white flag of surrender if they had waited until the next day. Not that it mattered now.

He and Jorrell were standing on the ramparts of the walls that they had endeavoured to take for so long. They were watching the last of the skirmishes continue below them. The Felthissian army had erupted into the centre of the city of Cottrill, like an anthill when a flaming torch is dropped upon it. The majority of the city's defenders had been lined along the battlements, precisely where Cael and Jorrell now stood. Not only had they been caught by surprise, but they had been attacked from the rear. They hadn't had a chance.

As far as Cael could reckon, it was the first moon of Doohr. Although it was hard to keep track of time in a country where every season was heralded by the arrival of more snow. It was, mercifully, not snowing at that exact moment, but Cael could feel in the bite of the wind that fresh flurries were not far away.

He had no great love for his own country. His regard was deeply embedded in the way that it might be for the place of anyone's origin. He