Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘Nice of Grand Marl Thorlberd to send us a personal escort,’ said the wiry youth. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Shut up, flekk,’ barked one of soldiers, a dark-skinned Southland woman.

  ‘Make me.’ The woman stood up, raised a baton and clonked the youth on his head. He collapsed forward onto the wooden slats that formed the base of the wagon.

  ‘Request granted. The rest of you keep quiet, unless you want the same as this loudmouth.’

  They continued their journey in uneasy silence. Zastra glanced out of the back of the wagon. By the direction of the lengthening shadows, she could tell that they were heading south. The soldiers sat taut and alert, swords unsheathed. One rested a loaded crossbow across her knee, her forefinger tapping the trigger. There was no possibility of escape. She silently cursed the man in the green jacket and Pugara for their treachery. Beside her, the young girl started to shiver.

  ‘It’ll be all right.’ Zastra tried to sound reassuring. The girl kept her forehead pressed against her knees.

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Yashni.’

  ‘Mine’s Layna. Try not to be afraid. They’ve paid good money to have us on this wagon, so they must want us alive and well.’

  ‘No talking!’ The curt order from Southlander ended their conversation and the wagon continued its slow journey. The twin moons were high in the sky before the wagon eventually pulled off the dirt track and stopped on a shelf of rock that overhung a fast-flowing river. The prisoners were ushered out into the night. Zastra felt cold spray against her face. Beyond the rock shelf, a waterfall thundered into boiling rapids, the white foam reflecting the light of a pair of swaying lamps. The shadow of a barge loomed dark against the swirling water. Zastra and the others were marched on board. Her bonds and that of the Kyrg were cut before they were forced down a narrow wooden ladder into the depths of the hull.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ Zastra received only a sharp shove in response to her question. The ladder was hauled up behind them and a square hatch was locked in place. They were left in utter darkness. Zastra felt a choking sensation as the dark closed around her. Ever since the night she had been forced to flee the horrors of Golmer Castle via a dark underground tunnel, she had hated enclosed spaces. A strangled squeak at her shoulder told her that Yashni was similarly afraid. She reached out a hand and brushed against trembling flesh.

  ‘Here, hold my hand.’

  ‘Layna?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’

  Zastra felt a cold hand slip inside hers. Somehow, Yashni’s need for reassurance gave her the courage she needed not to scream. She bit down on the bile that was rising in her throat and reached out into the darkness, shuffling forward until she felt the damp wood of the hull. A cold sweat broke across her forehead and she eased herself down, just before her legs gave way. She pulled Yashni down to the floor with her, comforted slightly by the solidity of the rough wood against her back. Breathe. One, two, three, breathe. The barge began to move, lurching with the river swell. Bodies stumbled and slid across the hold, followed by a shower of curses and muttered apologies as limbs crashed against each other in the dark, until everyone found a space to sit down.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Yashni sobbed. No one offered an answer. Zastra put her arm around the girl and pulled her close. One, two, three, breathe.

  The barge settled into a monotonous motion. Long passages of time were broken occasionally by a succession of bumps and grinding noises.

  ‘A lock,’ someone muttered at the first of these events. ‘They’re taking us down to the coast.’

  The air inside the barge began to thicken with the stink of sweat and damp wood. Zastra felt a familiar terror squeezing the air from her lungs.

  ‘I can’t breathe,’ sobbed Yashni, echoing Zastra’s internal panic. ‘They mean to choke us to death.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Zastra forced the words out between clenched teeth. ‘They don’t mean to let us die or they wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. You’ll see.’

  She began to stroke Yashni’s hair, as her own mother had once done for her, many years ago.

  ‘Do you have some special knowledge, mountain girl?’

  She recognised the voice of the cocky boy who had been knocked senseless by the Southlander.

  ‘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?’

  ‘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, sallow-faced man shuffled into the patch of light. ‘That’s for us, 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, fella. 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 it felt like she was being gripped by metal clamps. All the air was squeezed from her lungs 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 sallow-faced man had laid ha
nds 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 divided 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 bluntly. ‘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 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 weren’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 this time 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 at least 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. So much for being a leader. 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 side. 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 they were all 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 curled 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’s heart clenched as she 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. She could not let them 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 tr
aitors,’ 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 left 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 unless 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.