Burgal lifted the lid from the barrel. It was brim full of foul smelling water. Ithgol’s face creased with horror. He 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 pull 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 his foot 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 savage swipe 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 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 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. 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 handswith above her head. The Sendorans were already scrambling up the wet cliff face beneath the waterfall. Hylaz had made them practice 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 handholds. 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 weeks 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. 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 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 when 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 and menial of 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 reached 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 beautiful 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, clumsy as usual, didn’t get his line tied off quickly enough and 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.
‘You seem to like getting beaten, Kyrg,’ muttered Zastra as she picked out a large sail needle. ‘Why don’t you stop being so stupid and listen to our advice for once.’
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.
‘Why aren’t you with others?’ Zastra asked. With the notable exception of Ithgol, the Kyrgs did not take any part in the handling of the ship, spending their time wrestling with each other and practising fighting with their serrated scythals. Ithgol made no response. He either didn’t know, or wasn’t going to tell her. He continued sewing in silence. He made a very neat job of it, rather to Zastra’s surprise. When they had repaired the sail to Koltan’s satisfaction, they were released.
‘Not you.’ Koltan threw a pail and scouring pad at Ithgol’s feet. ‘Captain Dastrin wants the foredeck sparkling.’
Ithgol grabbed the pail as if he might crush it, but did as he was bid. On her way to her bunk, Zastra passed Zarvic, who was showing Yashni how to splice a damaged line.
‘Zarvic, why do we have all these Kyrgs on board if they aren’t going to help,’ she asked
‘They are warriors. You’ll see, when we get some action.’
‘Action?’ Yashni’s hands shook so much that she dropped her end of the rope. Zarvic raised an eyebrow.
‘You don’t think we just sail up and down the coast, do you?’
‘Have you had to fight much?’ Zastra asked. The Southlander grinned.
‘Only once, but it was a beauty. A pair of Southern Kyrginite galleys came upon us from out of a sea mist and tried to board the ship.’
‘Kyrginites? I don’t understand. Don’t the Kyrgs fight for Golmeira now?’
‘Our allies are the Northern Kyrgs. The Southern Kyrgs, or Skurgs, as we call ’em, are a different beast. They come from the Sand Islands, hundreds of leagues to the south, in the coldest reaches of the Golmeiran Sea. When the fancy takes them, they sail north to attack our merchant ships. They’re a terrible lot. Cannibals, some say.’
‘Cannibals?’ Yashni went white.
‘Sometimes they don’t even wait until you’re dead. Apparently our friendly northern Kyrgs hate their southern cousins something harsh. Burgal and his lot will come in useful if we meet any more Skurgs, I can tell you. Hey, watch out there!’
Some of the crew were attempting to lower the foremast spar. The top reef flapped lose and a sudden wind-gust slapped into the stray piece of foresail with surprising force, whipping the lines from the hands of the sailors. The sail and spar swung across the deck with frightening speed, spinning towards Jerenik and another crewman who were standing against the side rail. Zarvic and Zastra raced towards them, but it was clear they would never make it in time. A squat body jumped in front of the swinging spar. It was Ithgol. The thick wooden beam thudded into him with a sickening smack and its wild movement was momentarily halted. Ithgol grunted,
straining as the wind filled the fold of sail and pressed the spar deeper into his body. His feet began to slip. Another wind-gust and he would be swept overboard. Zastra and Zarvic grabbed the vangs, ignoring Koltan’s shouts as they fought to get the spar under control. Others joined them and between them they wrestled the spar safely to the deck
‘Useless flecks,’ shouted Koltan, using his strap on anyone who had the misfortune to be within range. ‘We could have lost the whole spar and its rigging.’
‘And it would have taken me with it,’ muttered Jerenik. ‘Not that Koltan would care about that. I guess even Ithgol has his uses.’
Zarvic slapped Ithgol on his back.
‘Well done, fella.’
The Kyrg grimaced.
‘You should go see the healer,’ Zastra said. ‘That spar hit you pretty hard. You might have a broken rib or something.’
Ithgol bent down to continue his deck scrubbing. Zastra picked up a brush and joined him.
‘Don’t need help.’ Ithgol coughed. A gob of blood splattered onto the deck.
‘You’re making more mess. Go and see Tijan. I’ll deal with this. We’ll all get in trouble if Dastrin’s precious deck isn’t spotless.’
Ithgol snorted. Zastra didn’t know if that was directed at her or their captain.
‘Do I have to make you?’ This elicited another snort, this time clearly directed at her. It was followed by a grimace.
‘Look, Ithgol, you should know by now that I don’t like to give in, especially to a Kyrg. I’ll keep nagging at you until you get those ribs checked out.’
Ithgol eyed her for a moment, then flung down his brush and stomped off in the direction of the hatch. Zastra gave a small nod of satisfaction. Tijan, the healer, had a sickroom on the lower underdeck. When she had finished scouring the foredeck, she went below. Ithgol was nowhere to be seen. Tijan scowled at her.
‘What now?’
‘Did Ithgol come and see you?’
Murthen Island: Book Two: Tales of Golmeira Page 8