‘Who’s that?’
‘Name’s Jerenik. We need to break down the walls of this tub before we suffocate.’
‘Fool,’ a voice growled in the dark. Zastra shuddered involuntarily. She recognised the harsh, scratchy tones of the Kyrg. Jerenik also appeared to recognise the Kyrginite tones.
‘Is that an animal grunting?’
‘You want to drown, boy?’
‘Um…’ Jerenik sniffed the air. ‘Yes, definitely some kind of wild animal. Seems to think we can understand its gruntings.’
This brought forth quite a few chuckles and the Kyrg said no more. The enclosed space grew hotter, the air becoming thick and pungent until the sound of bolts being slid back was followed by the appearance of a bright square of light in the deck above them. The prisoners shielded their eyes from the harsh glare, but as Zastra’s eyes adjusted, she saw that the sky above them was an overcast grey. A burlap sack was thrown down and a grate placed across the square. Zastra sucked in the fresh air gratefully as Jerenik made a grab for the bag and opened it. It contained a small barrel of water and some dry-roasted halsa nuts.
‘Is this all?’ he protested.
‘Be grateful,’ a voice shouted down. ‘Make the most of it. That’s to last you until tomorrow.’
Jerenik pulled the cork and lifted the barrel to drink but before he could put his mouth to the opening, the barrel was plucked from his hands by the Kyrg.
‘Hey!’ A thin, yellow-faced man shuffled into the patch of light. ‘That’s for us, not for you, you dirty animal.’
‘My name is Ithgol.’ The Kyrg raised the barrel to his lips and gulped down the water.
‘Ooh, it thinks it’s got a name,’ Jerenik remarked. ‘Well, I suppose even insects have names, don’t they? Fleas, lice, they all—’ He broke off as Ithgol lowered the barrel and issued a deep throated rattle.
‘Easy there. No need to get cross.’ Jerenik backed away towards the comfort of the shadows. Ithgol raised the barrel to his lips once more, keeping one eye on Jerenik’s rapidly retreating form. Zastra stepped forward and grabbed the Kyrg by his arm. His bicep was thicker than her thigh and felt as solid as the wooden timbers of the ship. Still, it was too late to back down now. At least, now there was some light and air, she felt alive again. Although by the look on Ithgol’s face, that state of affairs might not last much longer.
‘The water is for us all to share.’
She tried to keep her voice firm and steady. This close, the powerful bulk of the Kyrg was intimidating, but she refused to stand by and let him take all their food and water. Slowly, the Kyrg set the barrel down and replaced the cork. Then, without warning, he sprang. The speed of his attack almost caught her out and she only just managed to duck beneath the powerful swing of his arm. For a moment, he was off balance and she shouldered him as hard as she could in the midriff, hitting exactly where she intended. To her dismay, he didn’t even flinch. It was like fighting a giant tree. He grabbed her around her ribs, squeezing so that she could not breathe. She wriggled desperately but his grip was as firm as metal clamps. All the air was squeezed out of her body and then he tossed her aside as casually as if he were throwing a fish back into a stream. She crashed hard into the side of the barge and collapsed to the floor, sucking desperately for air.
‘Strongest first.’ Ithgol took another drink from the barrel, then grabbed a large handful of nuts before striding to the rear of the hold.
The other prisoners dived towards the supplies, hitting and gouging each other in their desperation to reach them first. Fists and curses flew about. Zastra saw Yashni floored by a stray elbow. Jerenik and the yellow-faced man had laid hands on the barrel and were each trying to tear it away from the other. A sudden swell caused the barge to tilt and the prisoners were sent sprawling. The barrel bounced off the hull and rolled towards Zastra. She pinned it beneath her left foot, still trying to catch her breath. Jerenik sprang for her, but she fended him off with a well-aimed jab to his stomach, leaving him gasping.
‘I’m not in the best of moods.’ Her chest still felt compressed and her voice came out low and harsh. She hoped it sounded imposing, rather than weak. ‘So I suggest you let me share this out fairly and save yourself some pain. Unless anyone else wants what he just got.’
Zastra was relying on no one realising that she had barely enough breath to stand, let alone fight. Luckily, her bluster seemed to work and no one challenged her. She began to divide up the nuts, making sure everyone received an equal share. There was a metal ladle clipped to the barrel. Zastra filled it with water and offered it first to Yashni, who drank gratefully.
‘Who’s next?’
‘That dirty animal’s had his mouth all over it,’ Jerenik complained. ‘Who knows what kind of diseases it’s got?’
‘Then don’t have any,’ Zastra said shortly. ‘There’ll be more for the rest of us.’
Jerenik made a show of wiping the barrel opening with his sleeve before he let her pour his water, but he still drank his share. The other prisoners took their turn, although many grimaced at having to drink from the same barrel as a Kyrg. Jerenik sidled up to her.
‘You’re lucky that I felt sorry for you. That Kyrg gave you such a beating, it didn’t seem fair to make you fight again.’
‘That would have been very thoughtful,’ she responded, ‘if it wasn’t complete rubbish.’
After everyone had taken their portion, she served herself, then addressed the darkness at the rear of the hold.
‘Next time we share, Kyrg.’
There was no reply.
Chapter Thirteen
The next time food and water were thrown down, Ithgol was in position to catch the bag. The prisoners muttered under their breath, but none of them challenged him directly. With a sigh, Zastra stepped forward, ignoring the warning of her aching ribs.
‘Stupid Golmeiran.’
‘You may have a point,’ she conceded, ‘but I’d rather be a stupid Golmeiran than a selfish Kyrg.’
He made a grab for her, but she was ready. She kept on the balls of her feet, skipping away from his crushing grip every time he tried to close in on her. He charged and she swayed to one side and landed a solid kick in the ribs even as she danced away from him. Ithgol grunted; in pain or anger she couldn’t tell.
‘Go on, mountain girl!’ Jerenik cheered. Some of the other prisoners added their encouragement, crowding around them and clapping her on.
‘You show him, girl.’
‘Get the animal where it hurts!’
Unfortunately, as the ring of prisoners closed around them, the lack of space made it easy for Ithgol to corner her. Just as before, Zastra was encased in his powerful grip, squeezed like a damp sponge and tossed aside. The crowd parted, grumbling at her defeat.
‘I guess she is as stupid as she looks.’
‘That fight was as one-sided as a mirror.’
Zastra ruefully noted that her sudden popularity had ended as quickly as it had begun. The Kyrg had taken his share of the food and water before she could recover, but as she staggered forward, Jerenik and others stood back and let her share out the rest without protest. As the grate was replaced by the hatch and they were plunged into darkness, Zastra racked her brains to think how she could defeat the Kyrg. He was stronger than her and apparently impervious to her stoutest blows. Without a weapon of some kind, her cause was hopeless.
The barge continued downriver. Every so often, more prisoners were thrust down into the hold. Zastra noted they were all young and healthy, just like Gonjik and the youngsters of Steepcrest. She almost sobbed in frustration. She had allowed herself to be taken as fodder for her uncle’s army. Dobery would be appalled. Instead of standing up to her uncle, she would be forced to fight for him.
The hold became uncomfortably crowded. Zastra and Yashni found themselves squashed in between Ithgol and Jerenik, so close that their elbows and thighs pressed against each other. They hit rougher weather and the barge began to lurch from side to s
ide. Jerenik threw up on Zastra’s feet.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. Around them, other prisoners were also sick and the air became thick and rancid. Water and food was thrown down, but everyone was too ill to eat or drink, even Ithgol. Just as it seemed as if the nightmare journey would never end, they ground to a halt against something solid. Cries came from the deck and footsteps thudded overhead. The hatch opened to reveal the blue-grey sky of late evening. The prisoners were ushered out onto the deck and into a line. A lively wind snatched at their hair and clothes. The barge was tied up against a stone jetty. In front of them lay the sea, its grey horizon merging with low clouds in an indistinct haze. Four ships were moored out in the bay with sails furled, their outlines fading into the evening gloom. A man in a black uniform marched across a gangway and onto the barge.
‘Welcome to the Golmeiran fleet,’ he said.
Chapter Fourteen
The man held himself with military stiffness and his voice was hoarse, as if worn out by shouting.
‘I am Captain Dastrin. You are now members of the Golmeiran Fleet. Do not think to escape. Desertion will be punished by death. Insolence will be punished by death. Cowardice will be punished…’
‘Let me guess,’ Jerenik muttered under his breath.
‘… by death.’
‘How original.’ Jerenik rolled his eyes.
‘You will obey my orders and those of my officers without question…’
Jerenik raised his hand. Dastrin shifted his icy stare towards the youth.
‘Without question,’ he repeated.
‘I didn’t agree to this,’ Jerenik protested. ‘You can’t just force us into your crew.’
‘Burgal.’ Only Dastrin’s lips moved; the rest of his body remained rigid. A Kyrg stepped forward, short of stature, with broad shoulders. In his hand was a thick leather strap, folded back on itself to form a loop. With a violent flick of his wrist he struck Jerenik across his chest and then across his shoulders. The youth lifted his arms to protect himself, crying out in pain as more blows landed. Burgal did not stop. If anything he redoubled his efforts, even as Jerenik cowered down on the deck and rolled himself into a ball. Dastrin looked on with naked satisfaction as the beating continued. The prisoners stiffened at the brutality of it. At last Burgal stopped, leaving Jerenik whimpering on the deck. Dastrin continued his speech as if he had not been interrupted.
‘Grand Marl Thorlberd has decreed that our army and fleet be expanded. Any loyal citizen of our great country must be willing to serve. Those not willing are traitors and will be treated accordingly.’
He paced slowly up the line of prisoners.
‘Make no mistake, I have the right to take you. I do not tolerate questions or protests. Do not think you can escape this fate. If you heed my words, then you shall be rewarded for your service at a rate of twenty tocrins per year.’
He had reached Yashni, whose shoulders were shaking with suppressed sobs.
‘We have no use for snivellers. Ours is a tough life, one you must get used to quickly.’
Yashni gulped. A cloaked figure approached the barge. Zastra recognised the black robes. She breathed deeply, silently urging herself to remain calm. She needed to put everything she had learned from Dobery into practice if the mindweaver was not to uncover all her secrets. For her own sake and Findar’s, she must be strong. They must not find out who she was. The mindweaver came aboard and pulled back her hood. She was an elderly lady with a surprisingly gentle face. The sort of woman you would happily invite into your house for a cup of chala and a chat. Zastra was not deceived. She knew what was coming.
‘We will ensure we have no traitors,’ Dastrin remarked.
The mindweaver moved along the line, stopping in front of each prisoner in turn. A small nod indicated the prisoner had been passed as fit and loyal. When she reached Ithgol, she stepped back in distaste. Dastrin beckoned forward his Kyrg officer.
‘What have we here, Burgal? Is this one of yours?’
Burgal circled Ithgol and began to snuffle the air around him. Ithgol stood rigid, but Zastra thought she saw something flash across his face. Not fear, but something like it. The Kyrg officer stopped circling, grabbed hold of Ithgol’s wrist and wrenched his forearm upward to examine it. A guttural sound rattled in the back of his throat and he whipped his scythal from the scabbard on his back and pressed the serrated blade against Ithgol’s neck.
‘Stand down, Guthan,’ Dastrin barked.
‘He is Mordaka. He must die,’ Burgal growled.
‘Not until I command it.’
Dastrin gestured the mindweaver to examine Ithgol. Before she could do so, he sprang forward and grabbed her throat. The elderly woman shrank back with a squeal of horror. Burgal and two other Kyrgs wrestled Ithgol to the ground, and Burgal looked towards Dastrin, seeking permission. The captain nodded and Burgal and the others began to kick Ithgol with a great deal of relish and didn’t stop until he had been beaten unconscious.
Zastra was next in line. She couldn’t resist a small shiver. As Dobery taught her, she hid her mind behind a mental stone wall and overlaid it with images of her life as Layna, the mountain girl. Would it be enough to fool the mindweaver? Zastra felt the probe dig into her mind, deep and painful. It lasted only a few moments, but it seemed much longer. Images of Dalbric and Etta were stolen from her and she concentrated hard on thoughts of climbing the jula trees and cleaning wool to try and divert attention away from Findar. Fortunately, the mindweaver was flustered following Ithgol’s attack and seemed eager to get the job completed. She moved down the line. Zastra had passed the test. She forced herself not to show relief.
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 rowboats 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 prisoners 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 making her clothes damp and cold.
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 re-surfaced 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 breast-stroked 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 small diamonds embroidered 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.’
Murthen Island: Book Two: Tales of Golmeira Page 7
