Murthen Island: Book Two: Tales of Golmeira

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘This is going to be easy,’ said Jagula, testing the sharpness of her sword with a dirty thumb. She ordered them to advance. The fence was too high to scale but they had come prepared with axes and a gap was soon made. Cries from within the stockade indicated that their chopping had roused the inhabitants and, as Jagula urged them through the gap, they were confronted by a semi-circle of grey-haired Skurgs, teeth bared.

  ‘They don’t look pleased to see us,’ remarked Zastra.

  ‘Maybe they don’t like getting up so early of a morning,’ Jerenik suggested.

  Jagula snorted. ‘There’s barely enough to keep me busy. They didn’t even think to bring their scythals.’ She drew her sword. ‘With me!’

  She sprang forward. Jerenik grabbed Zastra by her wrist. ‘Don’t be at the front,’ he muttered. By the time she had shrugged him off they were towards the rear of the charge. She sprinted to catch up with her crewmates, noting with surprise that the Skurgs had not run to meet them. In a most un-Skurg-like manner, they lobbed a few small objects in their direction before turning and running away. One of the objects, a small brown sack, landed on the ground a few paces in front of her and she noticed a plume of smoke tailing behind it. As she ran past it, the ground exploded beneath them. Her eardrums screamed in protest and she smacked into the ground as dirt rained down on her back. As she lay stunned, a large rock landed inches from her head. She wiped the dirt from her face, her ears filled with a high pitched ringing. All around her the grassy carpet had been torn away, leaving craters of mud. Acrid smoke filled the air. Beside her lay a body, unmoving. It was Jerenik. Blood streamed down his face and dripped from the end of his nose. She shook him vigorously but he could not be roused. As the smoke cleared, Zastra saw that she was surrounded by the bodies of their crewmates. Many were missing limbs. A mound of mangled flesh wore Jagula’s black uniform, two silver pips on a crumpled sleeve. Zastra eased herself to her feet only to be bowled over by one of her crewmates.

  ‘Run!’ he screamed wildly. ‘Back to the boats!’ The surviving members of the crew needed no further urging and made for the gap in the stockade, running or staggering as best they could. As Zastra stared at their receding backs, another of the strange missiles landed on the ground some distance to her left. It sat innocuously for a moment, before vanishing in a huge flash and crash of noise. It was supplanted by a large hole in the ground and Zastra was bowled over once more. She shook her head to try and clear away the dreadful ringing in her ears and pulled the motionless Jerenik up and onto her shoulder. He was heavier than he looked and she could only stagger towards the gap in the fence, certain the Skurgs would overtake her at any moment. She forced herself into a shuffling run, her thighs burning with the effort when, all of a sudden, the heavy weight was lifted from her shoulders. It was Ithgol, barely breaking stride as he took Jerenik from her. She ran after him. A small band of Skurgs armed with double-headed axes pursued them, war cries ringing out. Zastra and Ithgol reached the top of the hill together and headed down the incline towards the beach. The remnants of their advance party had already got the dinghy into the water, its oars pounding against the surf in a disordered frenzy. Someone had attempted to launch the yacht, unsuccessfully, and it lay against a line of rocks with its hull stoved in. Ithgol’s pace slowed as they reached the beach and his legs buckled in the soft sand. Zastra grabbed one of Jerenik’s arms to help him, but by the time they reached the water the dinghy was already three lengths clear of the shore and gathering pace.

  ‘Swim!’ cried Zastra. ‘We can keep him up between us.’

  ‘I can’t swim,’ Ithgol growled. He dropped his burden and unsheathed his scythal. ‘You go.’ He turned to face the onrushing Skurgs. There were six of them. Too many, Zastra realised. Even for Ithgol. At their feet Jerenik stirred. Zastra stepped over his prostrate body, drew her sword and tugged a knife from her belt. Ithgol issued a strange sort of rattle.

  ‘Just stay out of my way.’

  ‘Ha!’ cried Zastra, launching her knife with deadly accuracy at the leading Skurg. Ithgol stepped forward and two more Kyrgs fell to the ground before his swinging scythal. Another rushed at Zastra, his axe whistling past her ear as she swayed to one side and impaled him on her sword, the force of his charge forcing her back into the sea. She twisted free and turned to find Ithgol standing over the fallen bodies of the remaining Skurgs. Zastra hailed the dinghy but the crew couldn’t, or wouldn’t, hear her. The white sails of the Wind of Golmeira appeared on the horizon and the dinghy gathered speed and headed towards it. Ithgol spat into the sand.

  ‘Golmeiran cowards.’

  ‘Quite a few Kyrgs too, saving themselves as fast as they can,’ remarked Zastra. ‘Come, on, we’d better find cover. If we’re lucky the rest of the Skurgs will think we’ve escaped with the others.’

  There was a groan at their feet. Jerenik sat up and dabbed his bleeding head. ‘What did I miss?’

  ‘Tell you later.’ Zastra examined his wound, a nasty gash above his hairline. ‘Can you move, do you think?’

  ‘My head hurts.’

  ‘Don’t complain,’ Ithgol growled. ‘You’re lucky this one saved you. I would have left you. If you can’t help yourself, you’re a danger to your comrades.’

  ‘I couldn’t just leave him there to be killed, or worse. Why did you help, if that’s what you believe?’ Zastra protested.

  ‘You were unhurt. Honour demands that I help uninjured comrades. Even stupid ones.’

  Zastra snorted in disbelief. ‘What does a Kyrg know of honour?’

  ‘Will someone tell me what in the stars is going on?’ interjected Jerenik.

  ‘Looks like we’re stranded, but at least we’re alive. For which, although I hate to admit it, we have Ithgol to thank.’

  ‘Keep your thanks. Use your breath to walk.’

  They dragged Jerenik between them.

  ‘Keep by the water’s edge,’ said Zastra. ‘It’ll wash away our tracks.’ Every so often she glanced backwards but no more Skurgs appeared.

  ‘Must have been the sintegrack,’ muttered Jerenik. ‘Those little bags. I overheard Dastrin giving the orders. Some new weapon that the Skurgs stole from us. Dastrin was desperate to get his greedy little hands on it.’

  Zastra whistled softly. ‘Such a powerful weapon would make Thorlberd completely invincible. No wonder he wanted it back.’

  They rounded a headland and were at last out of sight of the landing beach. Jerenik slumped to the ground. Blood still oozed from the gash in his head and his face was grey. Zastra tore a strip of material from the bottom of her vest and wrapped it round his head to staunch the flow.

  ‘Stay down,’ Ithgol commanded in a low voice. He crawled towards a large clump of sand grass and used it as cover to observe the landing point. A few moments later he returned. ‘A group of Skurgs came and picked up the bodies of the others, but they’ve gone now.’

  ‘Good.’ Zastra tied off her rudimentary bandage, ignoring Jerenik’s complaints as she pulled the knot tight. ‘Let’s hope they think we’ve all escaped.’

  Out to sea the white sails of the Wind of Golmeira flickered and disappeared over the horizon.

  ‘They’re leaving us behind!’ Jerenik’s voice rose in alarm.

  ‘Let’s not panic,’ said Zastra. ‘Dastrin told us the mission couldn’t fail. Once the reinforcements arrive they may try again.’

  ‘So, we should just wait ’til they come?’ Jerenik tested his bandage gingerly. ‘That sounds rather dull don’t it? Why don’t we sneak in and steal the sintegrack? Then, when Dastrin comes back, we threaten to blow up the ship unless he lets us go. What d’you think, mountain girl?’

  ‘I think that whatever brains you had have fallen out of that hole in your head.’

  ‘Why? I know you want to escape too. It’s been written on your face ever since they caught us.’

  ‘That may be so,’ admitted Zastra. ‘But threatening to blow up the ship isn’t exactly a great plan, especially as we would
be on it.’

  ‘Mmm. Suppose you have a point.’

  ‘I would rather we destroy this sintegrack, or whatever you call it. It’s evil. You saw what it did to Jagula and the others. Dastrin can’t be allowed to get his hands on it.’

  Ithgol grunted in agreement. ‘It’s a coward’s weapon. Killing at a distance.’

  Jerenik’s eyes lit up. ‘I like it. With the noise we’d make, Dastrin’d have to come back to see what was going on. I’m not so sure the cowardly flekk will come back otherwise.’

  ‘The question is, how? Bearing in mind that two boatloads of us couldn’t get through the defences last time and there are only three of us.’

  ‘I have an idea,’ offered Jerenik. ‘A plan of genius, I believe.’

  Ithgol snuffled scornfully.

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ said Zastra.

  ‘Wait ’til night then bluff our way in. Our not-so-friendly Ithgol here can pretend to be one of them. We find the sintegrack and set it alight. Don’t suppose either of you have a firering?’

  Zastra dug around in one of her pockets until she found the piece of Hedrik’s firering. It looked tiny in her palm, discoloured where it had split off from the fragment she had left behind with Findar. Jerenik reached for it and her fingers closed around it instinctively.

  ‘Even if we can find the sintegrack, how do we make sure we don’t blow ourselves up with it?’

  ‘I can’t be expected to think of everything. You’re the Watchmaster-in-waiting after all.’

  Zastra scratched her head, but couldn’t find a way around the problem.

  ‘Let’s go have another look at that compound,’ she suggested at last. ‘Maybe seeing it will give us some ideas.’

  They skirted inland until they found a vantage point overlooking the rear of the Skurg stockade. The Skurgs were rebuilding the fence, dragging bodies of the Golmeirans inside the wooden dome. Zastra tried not to think about what would happen to them. She pointed towards a small stone square lying in the ground at some distance from the dome.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t you have your navigation telescope?’ Jerenik asked.

  Zastra rummaged around in the pockets of her trousers and brought out her small telescope with a cry of satisfaction.

  ‘I forgot I had this.’

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t get a bang on the head too?’

  Zastra opened out the telescope and trained it on a pair of Skurgs who were heading towards the stone square. Each carried an armful of small brown packages.

  ‘They’ve got the sintegrack.’

  One of the Skurgs lifted the stone and disappeared into the ground, followed by his companion. They re-emerged a few moments later, empty-handed.

  ‘That must be where they keep it.’ Zastra snapped her telescope shut. ‘Makes sense. They don’t want to accidentally blow up their home.’

  ‘That makes it easier,’ said Jerenik. ‘There’s no lock I can’t pick.’

  ‘It might work. They’ll think they’ve got the better of us. I doubt they’d expect another attempt tonight. I’ve got an idea to get us past the stockade, but it’s risky. Are you sure you’re both in?’

  Ithgol grunted. Zastra took that for assent. Jerenik grinned.

  ‘Beats just sitting here,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It was a long wait for night to fall. Jerenik began to fidget.

  ‘I’m bored.’

  Ithgol hissed at him, but he would not be silenced.

  ‘I’m starving to death here.’

  ‘I’ll kill you myself if you can’t be quiet.’

  ‘Typical Kyrg. Always offering to kill something. If only you turned your violent urges towards something we could eat. A nice vizzal perhaps? There must be something to hunt on this wretched island.’

  ‘Fine.’ Zastra stood up. ‘I’ll go.’

  Ithgol rose with her.

  ‘I will join you. If I have to stay here, I will kill him.’

  ‘I would help,’ offered Jerenik, ‘but I should probably rest. I could have brain swelling.’

  ‘As if your head could possibly get any bigger.’ Zastra adjusted his bandage, and reassured him that his brain was very much still inside his skull.

  ‘I’ll enjoy the peace even if we don’t find anything,’ Zastra remarked as they left Jerenik behind. Ithgol responded with a low rattle of agreement.

  The sandy island was dry and there was little vegetation, none of which looked edible. Ithgol crouched down and snuffled the air. He froze and then followed an invisible trail that led towards a flat rock. Zastra sniffed the air too, but all she could detect was the faint saltiness of the sea. With a rapid flick of his wrist, Ithgol lifted the rock and impaled a small yellow lizard with the tip of his scythal blade.

  ‘Is it edible?’ Zastra asked suspiciously.

  ‘Not delicate enough for your stomach, Golmeiran?’

  Zastra didn’t think the lizard looked very appetising, but her belly was grumbling.

  ‘One’s not going to be enough.’

  Ithgol began sniffing the air again.

  ‘Can you really smell them?’

  ‘Kyrgs often track by scent. Our womenfolk are best at it.’

  ‘Womenfolk?’ It had never crossed Zastra’s mind that there must be female Kyrgs. She wondered whether they were as ugly as their menfolk. They ventured deeper into the island, where the terrain became increasingly rocky. Ithgol sniffed out three more lizards. Close to the base of a steep hill, they found a large stream and the Kyrg used his strength to lift rocks from the stream bed, unearthing some green-coloured shellfish. As he lifted a particularly large stone, a river snake as long as his leg was startled out of its slumber. Zastra speared it with her knife.

  ‘That should do even for Jerenik.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. He eats even more than he talks.’

  ‘I would say that was impossible, but I’ve seen him at breakfast and I think I’d have to agree with you.’

  They headed back. To break the silence, Zastra asked a question that had been in her mind ever since her first day aboard the Wind of Golmeira.

  ‘Why don’t the other Kyrgs like you?’

  Ithgol didn’t break stride.

  Zastra sighed. ‘Between you and Jerenik, there’s one normal person. He never stops talking, and you never say anything.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘How can I understand if you don’t tell me? Look, you saved my life, which in my view makes us friends. Friends talk to each other.’

  Ithgol slowed his pace and half turned towards her.

  ‘You would be friends with a Kyrg?’

  Zastra shrugged. ‘It surprises me as much as it does you, but… yes, I suppose I would.’

  Ithgol pulled up.

  ‘I am Mordaka. Outcast. If I ever return to the Northern Wastes, I will be put to death. The others know this and only their obedience to your Golmeiran officers stops them killing me.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Tried to save my sister’s life.’

  He set off again, covering the ground quickly. Zastra was forced to jog to keep up, but even so she began to lag behind. They were halfway back to where they had left Jerenik when he stopped to take a drink from his flask. Zastra had lost her own flask during the attack and she eyed his longingly. He passed it to her.

  ‘Look at you, sharing things,’ she said with a grin. The water was pleasant against her parched throat but she took only a few sips. Apart from the stream where they had caught the snake they had seen no fresh water.

  ‘A Kyrg is taught to show his strength. Food is scarce in the Northern Wastes, and the weakest are sacrificed before winter comes. We call it the Culling.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘When you’ve only food for a hundred people, you must choose, else all will starve. Death at the culling ceremony is an honoured sacrifice.’

  ‘What if someone refuses?’


  ‘A Kyrg obeys orders from higher ranks without question. No one has ever refused.’

  ‘Why do you choose to live in such a barren place? If you lived in more fertile lands there would be no need for such brutal ceremonies.’

  Ithgol let out a strange sound, half bark, half laugh.

  ‘Kyrgs were a peaceful race until we were forced out of our ancestral home in the Helgarths by your Grand Marl Fostran. He banished us to the Northern Wastes.’

  ‘Peaceful? Don’t be silly. The story of Fostran fighting off a pack of Kyrgs single-handed is one of our best known legends.’

  ‘Tales told by victors are often twisted. What weapons did the Kyrgs carry in this story?’

  ‘Axes, scythes and pitchforks.’ Fostran’s battle with the Kyrgs had been Zastra’s favourite among all those about the legendary Warriors of Golmeira. She knew all the details by heart.

  ‘Exactly. Farm tools.’

  ‘But you attack our people in the Helgarths,’ she protested. ‘Hardly the act of a peaceful race. There are other stories too—’

  Ithgol broke in angrily.

  ‘We are not Skurgs,’ he snapped. ‘We steal only what we need to survive.’

  ‘So you have never… um, eaten people?’

  He emitted a low growl. ‘Long ago, the Skurgs lived with us, our brothers and sisters of the grey hair. They were a small clan. It is said that the first winter after Fostran banished us, the Skurgs chose to feed upon their own, rather than starve. And so they were cast out.’

  ‘What happened with your sister?’

  ‘She had a fever. She would have recovered in time, but the summer hunting had been poor that year. Stores were low and she was one of many Jelgar chose for the Culling.’

  Ithgol kicked at a loose pebble and watched it skid off into the distance.

  ‘She accepted her fate. I could not. I made her flee with me, but the winter that year came early. She did not survive.’

  The flow of words was interrupted by Jerenik, who had come looking for them, shading his eyes against the evening sun. ‘Where’ve you been? Did you find anything to eat?’ He made a grab for the bag but Zastra yanked it out of his reach.