Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  The remaining prisoners were also deemed fit for duty. They were divided into groups, each destined for a different ship. Zastra, Yashni and Jerenik were placed together with a few others from the barge. Ithgol’s inert body was dumped beside them. Their wrists were bound together in front of them and then looped onto a length of thick rope so they were all joined together. Burgal kicked Ithgol until he stirred and secured him to the end of the line. He looked terrible. One eye was swollen shut, and thick globs of blood oozed from his flattened nostrils. They were marched along the jetty and forced down some stone steps into a small yacht that rocked in the ocean swell. The rope that held them together was looped around the mast.

  ‘Anyone stupid enough to try and escape will take the rest of you with them,’ said Burgal. ‘We won’t jump in and save you.’

  The sail was raised and the little boat shoved off. They weaved their way between row-boats that fought against the swell as they ferried stores from the shore to the ships. Other yachts skipped across their bows, tacking to catch the breeze as they took the other conscripts to their respective ships. Gulls shrieked overhead, diving down to pluck discarded detritus from the surface of the sea. Zastra shivered as the wind threw up a spray, the salt water seeping into her clothes.

  Their destination was an impressive three-masted ship with ‘Wind of Golmeira’ carved into the side of the hull in large letters. Their little sailboat was dwarfed as it laid up alongside the ornate ‘G’ of Golmeira.

  ‘Up you go,’ ordered Burgal. Zastra looked in vain for a ladder but all she could see were small blocks of wood protruding at intervals from the hull. One by one, their bonds were cut and the prisoners ordered to scramble up the side of the ship. Zastra was one of the last, with only Yashni and Ithgol behind her. The wooden handholds were damp and slippery and she took great care as she hauled herself upwards. Behind her, a terrified scream was followed by a splash. She looked down. Yashni’s dark head emerged from the water, her arms flailing. Ithgol stared at her from the prow of the yacht, motionless, as Yashni’s head disappeared beneath the choppy surface.

  Zastra sprang down, gasping at the sudden cold as she hit the water. She kicked out to where Yashni had disappeared. The girl resurfaced and Zastra grabbed her, shouting at her to be calm, but Yashni thrashed wildly and dragged them both under. Zastra kicked hard with her legs to drive them upwards. They surfaced, but an evil wind-gust squeezed the yacht closer to the side of the ship. They were trapped between the two. As the gap narrowed, someone reached down and fished Yashni out of the water. Zastra felt a sharp blow to the back of her head and she was forced back beneath the water. She kicked for the surface but her head banged against a solid object that refused to move. She was trapped. Disorientated, she opened her eyes, but the water was clouded with dirt and she could see nothing. Her lungs were fast running out of air. Through a fug of panic she reasoned that the barrier above her must be the hull of the yacht. She dived downwards and breaststroked sideways before kicking upwards with the last of her strength. With relief, she broke the surface and gulped in a lungful of precious air. She was within touching distance of the Wind of Golmeira. Ithgol was above her, clinging to the small wooden blocks. He reached down a hand, but she shook her head mutely. She wanted no help from him. She pulled herself up the side of the ship and was prodded into line with the other recruits.

  Before them stood Dastrin and a thick-necked woman whose greasy hair was tied in a tight ponytail. Like Dastrin, she wore a black uniform, although Zastra noticed that she had two diamond-shaped pips embroidered in silver thread on her cuffs in silver thread, compared with Dastrin’s three. The woman cleared her throat.

  ‘I am Lieutenant Jagula, second in command of the Wind of Golmeira. Guthan Burgal, who commands our Kyrginite soldiers, you have met already. Each of you will be assigned to a Watchmaster who will show you what to do. Learn quickly. Your good health and the survival of this ship will depend on it.’

  Zastra and Yashni shivered as the wind tugged at their wet clothes.

  ‘Bring forward the one who defied us,’ commanded Dastrin.

  Ithgol was dragged towards a large barrel that stood behind the main mast of the ship.

  ‘This animal attacked a mindweaver. Such disobedience will not be tolerated. Burgal, you know what to do.’

  Burgal lifted the lid from the barrel. It was filled to the brim with foul smelling water. Ithgol struggled in vain as Burgal and two other Kyrgs grabbed his legs and tipped him upside down, forcing his head and shoulders into the barrel. Displaced water splashed onto the deck. Ithgol’s body writhed like a fish flicked onto dry land but the Kyrgs refused to let him surface. They had rolled up their sleeves for the job and Zastra noticed that each had a line of circular tattoos of various colours running up the inside of their left forearms. Ithgol stopped twitching and they pulled him out, choking and spluttering. Burgal glanced questioningly at Dastrin, who nodded, his lip curled in a cruel smile. Ithgol’s head was returned to the water. The process was repeated, until on the fifth occasion Ithgol did not move when released. His body was dumped face down on the deck.

  ‘He’s dead,’ gasped Yashni, in a horrified whisper.

  Burgal stamped down on Ithgol’s back with the sole of his boot. A spurt of foul water shot from Ithgol’s mouth but there was still no movement from the drowned Kyrg. Burgal continued to pound on the lifeless body as Dastrin looked on impassively. With a hacking cough, Ithgol came to life, his breath rattling from his sodden lungs.

  ‘Thank the stars,’ Yashni murmured. Dastrin seemed disappointed.

  ‘It looks as if this one wants to live,’ he remarked. ‘Since the Kyrgs don’t want him, he can work the ship like the rest.’ He looked at the shivering Yashni in disgust and then his disapproving eyes travelled on to Zastra before coming to rest on the puddles of seawater that had formed by their feet.

  ‘Lieutenant Jagula, I will not tolerate such a mess on my deck.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’ Jagula threw some dry rags at Zastra’s feet. ‘Clean that mess up.’

  The curt order was reinforced by a flick of Burgal’s leather strap. Zastra and Yashni dropped to their knees and began to mop up the water.

  ‘I can’t take this,’ sobbed Yashni. ‘Poor Ithgol…’

  ‘He’ll live,’ Zastra said bitterly. ‘Save your sympathy for someone who deserves it.’

  ‘He saved my life.’

  ‘No, he didn’t. He stood watching while you nearly drowned.’

  ‘He pulled me out of the water. He’d have done the same for you too, after you fell in. Why didn’t you let him?’

  Zastra stared at her in disbelief. ‘I didn’t fall, I…’

  But the girl wasn’t listening. She was staring in worship at Ithgol as he knelt down to clean up his own puddle of water.

  ‘Put your back into it,’ ordered Burgal and Zastra felt another sharp blow across her back. She forced herself not to answer back. She had already nearly drowned once today and had no desire to share Ithgol’s punishment. Once they had cleaned the deck to Jagula’s satisfaction, they were assigned to their Watchmasters, and given uniforms of grey vests and three-quarter length black trousers. Zastra and Yashni were quartered in the forward deck with the rest of the female crew, while Jerenik and Ithgol were placed in the mid-deck with the other men. As they were finding their berths, the Wind of Golmeira weighed anchor and set sail. Zastra went up on deck and looked wistfully at the receding land. She put her hand in her pocket and fingered her piece of firering, wondering if Fin was doing the same. Would she ever see her brother again?

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rumours turned out to be correct. An army of Kyrgs had assembled just beyond Sendor’s northern border. Their camp was basic and temporary and they weren’t bothering to hide themselves. That could only mean one thing; they would attack soon.

  ‘I won’t allow it,’ Kylen declared. ‘Not in my Sendor.’

  ‘I’m not sure what we can do, my Lady.’ Hylaz trained
his telescope on the camp. ‘There must be more than a thousand. I can see some of Thorlberd’s black ravens with them. He must have renewed the alliance.’

  ‘We have to stop them crossing the border.’

  ‘Even if we could stop these, there’s sure to be more.’

  ‘All the more reason to make a stand now. See that outcrop, above the stream? They’ll have to slow down and move to single file to get through the pass. We could hold them off there with our crossbows.’

  ‘My Lady, perhaps you did not hear me. There are a thousand, maybe more. And we are but twelve now.’

  ‘I can add up, Hylaz,’ snapped Kylen. ‘And before you start reminiscing fondly about odds of five to one, I’ll remind you that Alboraz ordered me to hold the northern border.’

  ‘The general can hardly have meant taking on an army. We should find him and tell him.’

  ‘And then what? He has only a few hundred soldiers himself. What could he do? Besides, he needs every last man and woman to hold our western border against the Golmeirans. We are here. It is our duty to try something. I refuse to stand aside and let Kyrgs into our lands.’

  Hylaz sighed.

  ‘Well, I suppose a scythal in the belly will stop me feeling hungry.’

  They had travelled so fast across the northern territories that they had not had time to hunt. Their last rations had been consumed two days earlier.

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  ‘At least let me think of a fall back plan. Not for me, but for the others. We’ve asked so much of them, and they have never let us down.’

  Kylen took in the sunken eyes and tired faces of her depleted team. They would be willing to sacrifice everything for Sendor. As any Sendoran should. But maybe Hylaz had a point. She had driven them hard. Even their fellgryffs were little more than skin and bone.

  ‘See to it. If only to stop you whining. Although I have never, ever fallen back in battle. A Sendoran keeps her face to the enemy.’

  ‘Of course, my lady.’

  ‘Fall back!’ cried Kylen. A mound of dead Kyrgs bore witness to the accuracy of their shooting, but they had run out of bolts and enraged Kyrgs began to swarm through the narrow pass towards them, scythal blades glinting in the sunlight.

  ‘I’ve got your back.’ Hylaz inserted his huge frame between her and the oncoming Kyrgs.

  ‘No,’ Kylen said quietly. ‘We use the fall back plan.’

  Hylaz hesitated. Kylen tugged his arm.

  ‘You’re not passing up a chance to gloat are you?’

  ‘I would never dare, my Lady.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Kylen waved her team backwards. They leapt from rock to rock with the sure-footed confidence of those born and bred in the mountains. Plodding Golmeiran troops would have been left far behind, but the Kyrgs scrambled across the difficult terrain almost as quickly as the Sendorans. They couldn’t shake them off.

  ‘There it is,’ cried Hylaz, as they reached a narrow waterfall, plunging down from the top of a cliff that rose in front them. Kylen held back, making sure all her group were accounted for. The leading Kyrg, only twenty paces behind them, launched a spear. It clattered against the rock barely a hands-width above her head. The Sendorans were already scrambling up the wet cliff face beneath the waterfall. Hylaz had made them practise the ascent the previous day so that everyone knew where the handholds were. Kylen was the last to jump up, her fingers reaching for a hidden crevice. As she levered herself up, a scythal clashed against the rock where her foot had been just an instant before. She clambered upwards until she found herself in a chimney in the rock. As they had rehearsed, she wedged herself into it, bracing her legs against the sides. The Kyrgs massed at the base of the cliff, searching for the hand-holds. Kylen eased herself up the chimney until it narrowed and merged into the sheer rock, worn smooth by the waterfall. It was impossible to climb further. Shielding her eyes from the spray, she reached out blindly. Her hand found the end of the rope they had hung from a tree at the top of the cliff. Beneath her, a dexterous Kyrg had reached the base of the chimney and began to work his way up. Kylen formed a loop with the end of the rope, put her foot into it to use it like a stirrup and whistled. The Kyrg was close enough for her to spit in his face as the rope jerked her upwards. Hylaz reached down from the top of the ridge and hauled her to safety. The Kyrg could not follow.

  ‘What now, my lady?’ asked Hylaz quietly. She stared down at the Kyrg army laid out beneath her. She had failed.

  ‘Get the fellgryffs. We must find Alboraz and Zax and warn them. We have to warn them all.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Zastra’s first days aboard the Wind of Golmeira were filled with confusion and exhaustion. The crew was split into what were called the First and Second Halves. Zastra was placed in the First Half and Yashni in the Second Half and they were assigned as each other’s ‘alternate Halves.’ This meant they shared a single bunk, each occupying it while the other was on duty. Jerenik and Ithgol were in the same Half as Zastra, under the command of Watchmaster Koltan. He was a taciturn man, who didn’t understand or accept that the new recruits needed time to learn. He viewed their mistakes, which were frequent, as deliberate acts of insubordination to be punished with a swift blow of the strap. Most times, Zastra didn’t even know what it was she was being punished for, such was her confusion over the multitude of strange new tasks and rules she had to learn. There were so many ropes, each with a different name and function, which all had to be hauled, tied or cast off, according to Koltan’s curt commands.

  Under the unforgiving gaze of their Watchmaster they learned how to make sail as well as the arts of trimming, tacking and wearing. The Wind of Golmeira was lateen-rigged, meaning each mast carried a single triangular sail hung from a huge, slanted spar. In order to wear ship, the spars had to be pivoted and brought before their mast, so that the spar and sail could be swung round the mast to the opposite side. Zastra and the other recruits soon hated the treacherous spars with a passion. Their arms ached from levering the top end of the spar with lengths of ropes called vangs. Reefing the sails involved a treacherous climb aloft and a precarious shimmy along the slanted spar to its peak. Their palms became raw from chafing against the vangs and reefing cords, and their ribs and shins were covered in bruises from vicious blows as the spars jerked and flexed unexpectedly in even the smallest gusts of wind. Zastra began to wonder if the foremast spar was possessed by some kind of evil spirit, a living thing whose only pleasure was in hurting the puny people who tried to tame it.

  They had to learn quickly. Zarvic, a young Southlander with two years’ experience, took pity on the new recruits. He showed them the skills they needed, translating the initially incomprehensible orders from the officers into understandable tasks. Everyone was forced to forget their differences and work as a team. Since his terrible beating from Burgal, Jerenik had lost some of his cockiness and he often helped Zastra by passing on whispered instructions when she forgot which rope to haul, or the correct way to tie off a line. She returned the favour whenever she could, all previous disagreements long forgotten.

  Only Ithgol remained aloof and friendless. Yashni had made some tentative efforts to talk to him but the Kyrg responded to her advances with stony silence. Zastra, like the rest of the crew, wanted nothing to do with him. He was a bully and a thief, who had stolen their food and water and would have let Yashni drown rather than get his clothes wet. Worse than that, he was a Kyrg. He found no friends amongst his own kind; indeed he was singled out as a daily target of Burgal’s brutality. He took his beatings wordlessly, talking to no one and refusing to ask for help as he struggled with his new tasks. This meant he often fell foul of some rule he had not yet grasped. Koltan would assign him extra deck scrubbing duties or cleaning out the head, the most hated tasks. Captain Dastrin took pleasure in launching regular, well-aimed kicks at the Kyrg whenever he was kneeling on the deck with scouring brush in hand.

  ‘That’s the only way to treat animals,�
� he would say. If Ithgol hadn’t been a Kyrg, Zastra might have felt sorry for him.

  By the time they had been aboard for three Moonscrossings, most of the new crew members had a basic understanding of what was required of them. There were some days when Zastra performed her tasks well enough to escape the strap altogether. Occasionally, she even began to find pleasure in her work. In mild conditions the ship was a fine sight, sending up plumes of spray as it skipped across the surface of the waves, but when the winds became fractious, changing direction and strength without warning, it was different, as the large sails fought against their bindings like untamed beasts. At such times, the deck of the ship became a dangerous place, even for the most experienced hands. On one watch, a sudden squall came upon them and Koltan gave the order to reduce sail. Jerenik, Zastra and Ithgol were sent aloft to reef the mainsail. Ithgol failed to get his line tied off quickly enough. The squall hit the exposed sail and tore it in half. The Kyrg received yet another beating and all three of them were ordered to repair the sail in their off-duty time.

  ‘Why don’t you listen to our advice, Kyrg,’ muttered Zastra as she picked out a large needle.

  Ithgol merely grunted.

  ‘Three Moonscrossings and you still can’t reef properly. You’ve been making bad choices right from the start. Like attacking that mindweaver. You must like getting beaten.’

  ‘I didn’t want her in my head.’

  ‘Can’t think you’ve got anything worth hiding in that tiny little brain of yours,’ Jerenik remarked, tugging his needle through the tightly woven sailcloth.