Murthen Island: Book Two: Tales of Golmeira

by Marianne Ratcliffe

‘The Kyrg? Three broken ribs to set and bind. He refused to take a draught for the pain and then declined a week’s bed rest. No one ever declines bed rest.’

  ‘He’ll be all right, though?’

  ‘Not sure I care. Probably. Now unless you’re ill, get out and leave me in peace.’

  After the incident with the spar, Ithgol’s presence was better tolerated, among the crew at least, if not by Dastrin and the officers. He still refused to let anyone help him. Not that the crew had time to spare. There was a never ending list of tasks. In addition to their regular chores, everyone had to take a turn as lookout, which meant a stomach churning climb up the main mast to perch atop a horizontal bar nailed below the masthead. The lookout had to straddle the mast, one leg hanging down either side. The motion of the ship was amplified at this height and the first time Zastra took her turn she’d had to concentrate hard not to vomit. Being sick on the deck was another excuse for a beating. Once she had got used to the way the mast moved, she even began to look forward to taking her turn. Sitting on the lookout perch was easier than riding a swaying jula tree and she relished the rare opportunity to be alone with her thoughts.

  The cold winds of autumn strengthened into the bitter gales of winter. Zastra’s hands stung from handling the frozen ropes. The crew were given woollen jackets to go over their vests, but even so they were always cold. Unable to sleep as she lay shivering in her damp clothes, Zastra’s thoughts often turned to the Border Mountains. She reached for the tiny fragment of firering that she kept in the pocket of her trousers. She missed Findar enormously. Etta and Dalbric too. She despaired of ever seeing them again and hoped that the yaya-root was helping Etta to stay well. There had been no chance of escape. Whenever they reached a port, the Wind of Golmeira anchored at some distance from land and none of the new recruits were allowed ashore. She thought again about Dobery and his idea that she could lead an uprising against Thorlberd. How ridiculous that seemed now. She had been trapped into working for her uncle rather than fighting against him.

  Zastra’s black mood seemed to be shared by the whole crew. Some, like Jerenik, shared her homesickness. He had run away from home because he considered his parents’ lives too dull. They were farmers and he had opted for the more glamorous life of a thief. He claimed to be an excellent pickpocket yet his pickings had been slim.

  ‘I should have stayed at home,’ he complained. ‘No one has anything worth stealing these days. I got caught and they turned me over to the soldiers. Look at my poor hands. They froze to the rope last watch.’ He displayed his palms, red raw and oozing blood. ‘We shouldn’t have to work in these conditions.’

  ‘I dare you to ask Dastrin for a holiday.’ Zarvic’s teeth chattered. ‘Although even the punishment barrel is frozen solid, so I don’t know what they’d do to you.’

  ‘Our captain would think of something,’ Jerenik remarked grimly.

  ‘Listening to you whining is punishment enough,’ growled Ithgol. ‘You soft Golmeirans should try a few winters in the Northern Wastes.’

  ‘What do Kyrgs do in the winter?’ Jerenik cocked his head to one side. ‘Besides snuggling up with a she-caralyx or some other beast for a bit of warmth?’

  Ithgol raised one corner of his mouth, giving the appearance of a silent snarl.

  ‘I supposed they kicked you out for talking too much. Is that why the other Kyrgs hate you?’

  Ithgol grabbed Jerenik by the collar of his jacket and shoved him against the side of the hull. Jerenik held up his hands in surrender.

  ‘Okay, I’ll shut up. No need for violence.’

  Ithgol dropped him to the floor. Jerenik straightened his woollen jacket.

  ‘I forgot that Kyrgs don’t have a sense of humour.’

  At that moment, Yashni came below decks. Jerenik turned to her.

  ‘What about you, Yashni? How did you end up amongst this fine company?’

  ‘My father sold me to the soldiers to pay for a cask of spirits.’ Yashni rummaged in the bunk she shared with Zastra and retrieved her jacket. ‘I hate this stupid ship, but I’ve nothing to go back to.’ Zastra reached out to squeeze the girl’s shoulder.

  ‘Cheer up.’ Jerenik clapped his hands. ‘There’s spring to look forward to. If we don’t all freeze to death first. Zarvic told me four of Koltan’s watch died of frostbite last year.’

  ‘Is that your way of cheering us up?’ Zastra asked. ‘If so, you need to work on it.’

  ‘Get real, mountain girl. There’s no point fooling ourselves. It’ll be a miracle if we survive the winter.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kylen scoured the valley to make certain no one was watching before she lowered her body flat and wriggled under a limestone shelf that jutted over a dark slit in the mountainside like a spearhead. It was one of the many secret entrances to the underground network of passageways and caverns that made up the Caves of Karabek. Since Thorlberd’s invasion three years ago, the caves had become an increasingly important refuge for her people. She had released Breeze – the caves were no place for a fellgryff. He had been reluctant, his intelligent brown eyes pleading as she pushed him away. They had been together for more than a year and had formed a strong bond, but he would have to fend for himself now, as would she. She hoped they would meet again, but knew it was unlikely. The fellgryff would have to roam far away to find good grazing. She would have to tame another fellgryff next time she needed one. She crawled forwards. Lights were forbidden in the outer passages and she reached into the darkness, searching the stone walls with her fingers for the secret signs carved into them to guide her way. She could sense the weight of the mountainside above her head. Running beneath the earth to hide like a cowardly scrittal was not the Sendoran way, and it felt like failure. No, it was failure. Unopposed, the Kyrgs had swarmed across Sendor’s northern territories, burning villages and killing Sendorans without mercy. Kylen had fled before the onslaught, warning her people to pack up their essential belongings and run for their lives. She had ordered her team to split up and spread out across the region to warn as many as possible. She just hoped Hylaz and the others had made it back to the caves safely.

  She followed a passageway that led deep within the mountain until it opened out into a vast cavern, hollowed out by an underground river. Jula lamps were set against the wall, orbs of orange light that struggled to penetrate the gloom. The ceiling of the cave was lost to darkness. Kylen was shocked to see how packed it was with exhausted refugees.

  ‘Lady Kylen,’ one of them whispered as she passed by. ‘Mendoraz’s girl. She’ll take care of us.’ But others just hung their heads, or looked away. Hope was as weak as the guttering light of the lamps.

  There was a stirring at the far end of the cave. A young boy ran towards her, zig-zagging through the crowd, a flush of excitement across his face. Despite her weariness, Kylen couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘Zax!’

  Her brother rushed towards her and threw himself into her arms.

  ‘Hylaz said you were coming. What took you so long? He’s been back for two days.’

  ‘I guess he’s got longer legs than me. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s bringing the biggest vizzal you ever saw. I killed it, sis. Well, me and Hylaz killed it together really, but it was my spear that got it first.’

  Kylen noticed a thin ribbon of blood running across Zax’s forearm

  ‘You’re bleeding.’

  ‘Don’t fuss. It was only that my spear snapped before the vizzal was quite dead, so it kicked me. Then Hylaz shot it.’

  ‘Hylaz!’ Kylen called sternly. A vast frame emerged from the dimness at the back of the cave, a fat vizzal slumped across his shoulders.

  ‘My Lady.’

  ‘How did you allow Zax to be hurt?’

  ‘It happened just as my little master told it. I had my bow on the beast the whole time, but the lad deserved the chance to prove himself. The scratch will teach him to be more careful in future.’

  ‘Tonight we feas
t!’ proclaimed Zax.

  ‘I’m not sure about feast.’ Kylen rubbed the top of his head tenderly. ‘You did well, but look around. We have many mouths to feed. You wouldn’t object to sharing your trophy?’

  ‘No…’ Zax looked a little disappointed, but quickly brightened up. ‘I’ll just have to go and kill another ten vizzal, won’t I?’

  ‘It’s too dangerous. There are Kyrgs just behind me.’

  Zax screwed up his face.

  ‘Stop treating me like a child. I’m nearly twelve.’

  ‘My Lady, I’m glad you are safe,’ Hylaz said. ‘General Alboraz has also returned today and has requested an audience with you.’

  ‘Requested? That’s unusually polite.’

  Alboraz was grey with exhaustion, his face covered in dirt and sweat. His arm was in a dirty sling and there was a nasty gash across his forehead that had barely healed.

  ‘You’re hurt?’ Kylen didn’t hide her astonishment. Alboraz was renowned as one of the best fighters in Sendor, famed for never having a scratch on him. The general bowed and presented her with his sword. It was caked in dried blood.

  ‘Lady Kylen, I have failed Sendor. I await my just punishment, by the ancient rites of our land. The Golmeiran army has triumphed. I gave the order to retreat. I did it to save my men and women from certain death, but because of my decision our land is lost. I accept my fate willingly.’

  Kylen reached out and took the sword from him. She turned it once in her hands, feeling its weight. A good sword. Heavy, but well balanced. Old, but well kept. Which made its current, bloody state all the more shocking. She took out her cleaning rag and began to wipe away the blood.

  ‘General Alboraz, if I were to condemn you, I would condemn myself, for I made the same choice.’

  She finished cleaning the sword and returned it to him, hilt forwards.

  ‘I too would prefer to have died in battle. But our resistance would have died too and Sendor along with it. In these caves are the last of our people. While we live, there is a chance we can fight back. Your duty is to take back this sword. One day, I swear to you, it will be needed. And on that day, I would wish to have you by my side.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Despite Jerenik’s forebodings, the Wind of Golmeira made it through the winter. Only two of the crew had been lost, one to a wasting sickness, the other swept overboard in a storm. Everyone was heartily glad when spring arrived and along with it periods of calm weather during which the crew’s battles with wind and rigging were temporarily suspended. Dastrin had no use for idle hands and took the calmer weather as an opportunity to train the crew in ship to ship combat. Wind of Golmeira carried two great catapults that were broken into pieces and stored in the hold. To make the ship ready for battle, the catapults had to be brought up on deck and assembled. Each catapult had a crew of ten, responsible for ratcheting back the giant arm and loading the cradle at the end with a cargo of rocks or bales of straw drenched in jula oil, the latter to be set alight and flung at the enemy. The new recruits were not entrusted with anything as vital as the catapults. Their role was to fetch more rocks from the hold or stand by with buckets of sand or water pumps, ready to douse any fires caused by an enemy ship with its own flaming missiles.

  Everyone was tested for their ability to fight. Zastra, not wishing to draw attention to herself, deliberately aimed for the edge of the target with the crossbow rather than the middle and pretended she didn’t know how to use a sword. However, what she considered poor performance with the crossbow was still far better than most and she was picked to be stationed in the rigging as a sharpshooter. She dreaded the call to action, hoping it would never come. The idea of fighting on behalf of her uncle made her sick to the pit of her stomach.

  The calmer seas of spring brought more ships out into the Sea of Golmeira. Fishermen and traders mainly, but then word came that Skurg galleys had been spotted in Golmeiran waters. The Wind of Golmeira headed south to investigate. Yashni and Zastra were swapping shifts when there was a hail from the lookout.

  ‘Two… um, or maybe three sails to the southeast.’

  ‘Is it two or three, idiot?’ yelled back Lieutenant Jagula. There was a short pause.

  ‘Three,’ came the reply.

  ‘So many?’ exclaimed Yashni.

  The crew were ordered to prepare for battle. The catapults were assembled and the crew given weapons.

  ‘That’s how you know it’s not a practice,’ remarked Zarvic. ‘When they give you real weapons.’

  Jerenik took a stone and began to sharpen a short-bladed sword.

  ‘Scared we’d mutiny, are they?’

  Zarvic looked around nervously. ‘Don’t ever speak that word. It’s death even to mention it.’

  ‘Then we’d better find another name for it, hadn’t we?’ Jerenik winked at Zastra. She eyed the crossbow bolts that she had been given. One was bent, so she discarded it. She pondered Jerenik’s words. Mutiny. Was it possible? Many of the crew had been forced into service against their will. Plenty of the older hands, even those who had volunteered, were unhappy. Few of the Golmeirans liked having Kyrgs on board and Dastrin’s harsh regime, supported by the likes of Koltan and Burgal, hadn’t won him any friends. Yet mutiny would be dangerous. If they failed they would certainly be put to death. Her thoughts were interrupted by Jagula.

  ‘Everyone to their positions. Those are Skurg galleys. We’ll see some blood today.’

  Zastra shuddered. Not just at the words but at the evident joy with which they were spoken. She finished loading her crossbow to its maximum capacity of three bolts. She would be able to release three shots in quick succession before having to pause and reload. There was to be a sharpshooter at the top of each mast. Zastra was stationed at the least important rear mast, which was significantly shorter than the other two. As she climbed, she looked across the water to the approaching Skurgs. Three galleys, each with a single square sail bloated with a following wind, were heading directly towards them. The prows of the galleys shimmered. As they closed, Zastra saw that the shimmering came from the sunlight reflected by the brandished weapons of row upon row of Skurgs. The wind carried the sound of their war cries. On the deck below, Zastra’s crewmates were scurrying about. The catapults were primed and ready but Zastra knew that they would have to tack the ship to bring them to bear. There would be no time to move the spars round the front of the masts and so they would simply tack the ship and allow the sails to press against the mast. It was not an efficient manner of sailing, but needs must. She knew she would have to keep her wits about her when the huge spar swung round. When the wind caught the sail on the opposite tack, it would give the mast a severe jolt.

  ‘You there, sharpshooters.’ The call below was from Lieutenant Jagula. ‘Remember your orders. Look for the leaders and don’t miss!’

  Zastra wiped her sweaty hands on her thighs. The order to tack came. She clung to the masthead, keeping well clear of the stays and braces as they were released to allow the spar to creak around. She clung on as the mast lurched violently as the sail pressed against it. With an ear-splitting whumph the catapults were released. Zastra ducked instinctively as a flaming bale of straw whizzed past her. Both fireballs landed just short of the trio of galleys and the Skurgs ploughed forward unchecked. The catapults were reloaded and the next volley sent into the air. The galleys were closer now and both loads hit their targets, to cheers from the deck below. The huge spar swung round again as the Wind of Golmeira moved back onto its normal tack. The catapults were swung round to bear in the opposite direction. This time showers of rocks were sent skywards. The Skurg galleys were so close that Zastra could hear the splintering impact of the rocks on the wooden planking. The sail of the second galley crumpled and its prow swung around sharply. A dark cloud of smoke rose from the rearmost galley and a flame snaked up its mast. The sail melted away from top to bottom as the fire consumed it. More cheering broke out from Zastra’s crewmates below, but quickly died as the leading gal
ley closed to ram them. The angry red faces of the Skurgs became distinct as they waved their serrated blades in the air. Unlike their own Kyrgs, who lined the prow of the Wind of Golmeira, the Southern Kyrgs had grey hair, although they did not appear to be particularly old. Worryingly, they appeared to be in the prime of health.

  With a tweak of the rudder the Wind of Golmeira avoided a head-on collision and the two ships passed alongside each other’s bows, the galley lying much lower in the water. A swarm of grapnels flew up from the smaller ship and as they bit and the lines pulled taut, the Wind of Golmeira juddered and swung round clumsily. Zastra instinctively tightened her grip on the masthead to keep her perch but her crewmate on the main mast was not so fortunate. Unseated by the rapid deceleration he was cast helplessly to the deck below.

  ‘Sharpshooters!’ the cry came from the quarterdeck. Zastra scanned the galley beneath her. A Skurg guthan with a bronze helmet and a tattoo across half his face surged to the front, shouting commands. Zastra took careful aim. Just as he was poised to leap aboard the Wind of Golmeira she fired, aiming for the gap between his helmet and jerkin. The bolt struck home and the guthan fell, but other Skurgs poured past his body. Zastra loosed her second and third bolts as quickly as she could, not even sure where they landed. She reloaded and took aim at the seething mass of Skurgs but by now most were on the deck below her and mixed in with the Golmeirans. A small group of her crewmates had been pushed back against the bulwarks. Zastra recognised Jerenik and Zarvic with Yashni cowering behind them. They were heavily outnumbered. Zastra slid down the forestay using one hand, ripping the skin from her palm with the speed of her descent. She landed so hard that the impact dislodged her crossbow. She had no time to retrieve it before a large Skurg charged towards her, his scythal raised above his head ready to strike. She yanked the short sword she had been given from the scabbard on her back and thrust at the onrushing Skurg, her wrist jarring at the impact as he fell upon her blade. Another Skurg followed. There was no time to think, no time to remember the fencing moves she had been taught all those years ago at Golmer Castle. Survival was about short, brutal moments and instinctive reactions. Through a small gap in the heaving bodies, Zastra caught a glimpse of Zarvic and Jerenik, pressed back by a tide of Skurgs. There was no sign of Yashni. Zastra edged towards them, hacking with her sword, but she found herself shoved aside as their own Kyrgs, Burgal and Ithgol at the head, ploughed their way through. A heavy blow to her head knocked her to her knees and sweat or something worse dripped into her eyes. A cry went up and there was a sudden lull in the fighting. The Skurgs had been repelled. Jagula, blood streaming from a gash to her bicep, grabbed Zastra beneath her armpit and pulled her to her feet.