Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale by PJ Hetherhouse Page B

gig?”
    “Her gig?”
    “Oh, I’m sorry I forgot I was talking to Ser Gruffydd of the Green, the noblest man to ever herd a goat. Please excuse my language. I’m talking about her job. Have you ever heard how she got her job?”
    “The king told me that she abducted the prince when he was a baby.”
    “Yeah, and…”
    “And that’s all I know.”
    “Well, well, well. Something you don’t know, hey? Well, you know Vesta is from the snow, don’t you? A diethrin? ”
    “No. I didn’t know that either.”
    The number of diethrin in the kingdom is absolutely tiny. Whilst the people of the Bwlch are the only recent example of an entire tribe joining civilisation, the incidence of individuals turning up and being accepted is even more unusual.
    “She and the women she turned up with gave us more grief than anyone in my lifetime. There were only about five of them. God only knows how they got on the island. They were in and out of the palace like ghosts.”
    “How did you stop them?”
    “We didn’t. They rode us over the land like it was their own. At some point, Vesta sold her own people out. Don’t ask me how or why or even how she came to be where she is now. Don’t ask me to trust her either. She’s turned tail at least once in her life… And that’s all I need to know.”
    Hearing Vesta described to me thus disappoints me more than I thought it might. Almost without noticing, I’ve come to see her as some sort of hero – something to aspire to, a person of honour, a no-nonsense administrator. Hearing her described as a snow savage and, worse, a traitor leaves me feeling slightly chilled. I also shouldn’t forget that, however she sold it to me, she was ultimately the person who sent me on this quest.
    “Time for bed. Early start tomorrow,” I grumble, suddenly more miserable than ever.
    “Boring, boring goat,” grins Morrigan, tapping his tankard on the table.

Thirteen
     
    We trudge through the snow for twelve terrible days. The savages are not as numerous as I had feared but, even without combat, time spent in this tundra is a constant struggle. Every day that passes is a battle to fulfil primal needs – warmth, hunger, thirst – against a ravenous nature that, I am quickly learning, doesn’t want us to live.
    Everything that we islanders take for granted has become something we have to actively fight for; food must be hunted from what sparse fauna is available, shelters must be carved from the frozen ground, and everything looks so similar that is possible to walk for a day without feeling like we’ve moved. The weather, spring-like in its capriciousness, varies between delicate sunlight and heavy snowfall. It is, however, never even slightly warm; the sun, our compass and calendar, stays out for longer each day without ever daring to produce a stroke of heat.
    Despite the fresh and frigid weather, the relationship between Morrigan and myself is, to my great surprise, a good one. For some reason, I have found myself beginning to warm to him. Perhaps it is because that rebellious streak, that mischief for which he is renowned, has very little opportunity to show itself out here in the wilderness. Instead, his casual and easy-going nature has come to the fore, making him an escape from, rather than an addition to, the burden of the journey.
    Vesta was also right in identifying us as a solid potential team. Both my small frame and hillside upbringing have aided me in becoming a passable survivalist and scout. Meanwhile, his strength and skill with the bow have provided sources of food and shelter that I could not have achieved alone. A grim determination has set over us and, as the week has passed, perhaps even a sense that we have a chance to achieve our task. It seems cruel then that it is only hours after this thought has crossed my mind that we are ambushed.
    It is towards the end of the day, our eyes hungrily surveying the land for suitable shelter. As the first arrow hits, the wound it