Altaica

by Tracy M. Joyce

  At the look of consternation and bereavement that crossed the young man’s face, Deo stepped forward. ‘Wait. What is it? Let’s see.’ He calmly unrolled the bundles. Inside one were the tools of a smith, while the other contained swords and a dagger. Arching his eyebrow at Umniga, he said, ‘We’ll let the man have his tools, eh?’ She nodded. ‘This?’ he continued, indicating the weapons.

  ‘You keep them secure. The lords will want to see them.’

  Curro watched this exchange helplessly, his anxiety patently clear. When he was given back his tools, he expelled a long, relieved breath. He looked hopefully at the weapons bundle, causing the old man to laugh and shake his head. Curro, grateful beyond words for his tools, bowed his head several times in thanks.

  Elena watched as Curro made his way to the edge of the deck. He’s leaving! He did not look back. Stunned, she did not move. Curro was determined not to appear weak before these people and managed to climb down the rope ladder; his tools were lowered to him. He’s going without me. Elena’s mind wavered between fear and panic. Who are these people? How did they find us? She shuddered. She didn’t trust these people. Yes, they were helping them, but they looked so different; they spoke so differently. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Now Curro was leaving her without a backward glance. His head disappeared over the side of the boat. Hurt and anger at him flooded her mind. With a shriek she came to her knees and tried to stand. Her limbs failed her. She cried out again, then sobbed and tried to crawl along the deck.

  Two young men approached her, gripped her upper arms, and dragged her to the edge of the deck. She did not resist, nor did she help them. All she was capable of was staring in disbelief at the spot she last saw Curro. At the edge of the deck, she began frantically searching for him, finding him already in the smaller boat. His encouraging smile faltered momentarily at the look of outrage and betrayal that flashed briefly across her face.

  Deo and Umniga exchanged a meaningful glance. ‘She’ll bear watching.’

  Another fishing boat moved alongside to take the remainder of the passengers—Nicanor, Lucia, Pio and Isaura. Pio was sitting with his parents, anxiously watching the others boarding the small boats. He was euphoric, yet his joy was tempered when he thought of Isaura. Would they take her? The first thing the old woman did was to come to him and Isaura, but she had not been able to wake her. Would they bother with her now?

  Nicanor looked at Isaura, laying still on her pallet. There’s no hope. Pio needs to accept it. It’ll be easier all round if he does. Despite this, he could not give voice to his thoughts. These newcomers were clearly an answer to their prayers, yet he was intrigued and a little suspicious as to how they had found them. They were obviously prepared for a rescue and the old woman, clearly an authority figure, curiously had made straight for Pio and Isaura. Despite helping others, her gaze had repeatedly rested on them. What does she want? The old woman turned her smiling face upon him. He chastised himself for reading too much into the situation. The most important thing was that they were saved. These people could have killed them or just left them to die—they had not.

  It was their turn to leave. Nicanor marshalled his strength to stand, but the old woman walked directly to Isaura, ignoring him. She fussed about her, issuing instructions to the men. The larger of the two put his arms under Isaura’s neck and knees and lifted her easily.

  At the gap in the railing another sailor waited on the rope ladder. Isaura was placed on the deck with her legs dangling over the edge. Her arms were bound behind the neck of the sailor on the ladder. Another rope bound her waist to him. This done, he slowly descended the rope ladder.

  ‘Careful,’ Umniga chided. ‘Don’t you drop her.’

  ‘Just let them get on with it, old girl.’ The rope groaned ominously under the strain of the weight. Two more men held the base of the ladder in an attempt to minimise its sway. Finally Isaura was left curled up in the bow of the waiting boat.

  Pio was grinning like a loon, delighted that Isaura was being saved, when he knew his family had given up on her. One of the men came along, laughing at the sight of Pio’s ecstatic expression, before scooping him up and carrying him toward the waiting boat. He was then lowered over the side, looking for all the world like he was having a marvellous time.

  Nicanor shook his head in amazement. He had never known anyone as resilient or irrepressible as Pio, or who possessed such a well of fierce, natural joy. Isaura, he thought sadly. Yes, Isaura had been similar when she was young.

  Lucia had been trying to remain awake, but her exhaustion continued to overwhelm her. He prodded her gently, drawing her attention to the approaching strangers. She took a deep ragged breath as she rubbed her eyes and drew herself up. Lucia was determined to get off this boat under her own power. She managed to stand, but dizziness overcame her and she toppled sideways. Strong arms caught her. The next thing she knew she was on board the other boat next to Pio.

  When they came for Nicanor, he had a firm hold on his tool chest. He refused to let go of it as they helped him up. Someone tried to prise his hand away, but he shook his head vigorously. ‘No!’

  Umniga laughed. ‘He has to be the brother of the other one. See what’s in it.’

  ‘Tools. Just tools. Carpenter?’

  ‘Oh, just bring ‘em!’ Deo grumbled. ‘I want off this stinking damn tub.’ He ceased his complaints when he saw the lid of the small chest. ‘Umniga, did you know about this?’

  She stared in surprise at the depiction of the bear inlaid upon the lid. ‘No. I only saw the figurehead. This just confirms my thoughts.’

  * * *

  Lucia sat huddled next to Nicanor with Pio before them. Umniga sat in front of them in the bow of the boat, her hand resting protectively on Isaura as she stared out to sea, deep in thought. Umniga felt a tug on her dress; turning she met Pio’s hopeful face. He placed his hand on his chest and said, ‘Pio.’ She could not resist smiling at him. He had taken the initiative to introduce himself, despite the circumstances, something none of the adults around him had taken the time to do.

  Placing her hand on her chest, she said, ‘Umniga.’

  ‘Um-ni-ga, Umniga.’ He frowned as he voiced the unfamiliar sound. ‘Umni,’ he finished with a grin.

  She pursed her lips in mock anger. ‘Greetings, Pio.’

  He copied her. ‘Greetings, Umni.’ Pio was not feeling tired anymore. He was buoyed by all that was happening around him. These people spoke another language, but already he had learnt a new word. He wanted to know the names of these others, but how to ask? Umniga watched the play of emotions across his young face—joy, followed by a slightly crestfallen look, then thoughtfulness. Clearly he wanted to ask something.

  ‘Pio. What is your name?’

  He frowned.

  ‘Pio,’ she supplied. She repeated the question, emphasising her facial expressions and voice modulation, trying to convey the question and answer. He smiled, suddenly excited, and repeated her words, but lost his phrasing halfway. On repetition he mastered it. Umniga clapped and the sailors cheered him.

  Still sitting, Pio introduced himself to the man nearest to him, followed by a small bow. This became a game; the fishermen would approach him, repeat the phrase and exchange names. They taught him their traditional friendly greeting, in which they placed their hands over their hearts, lowered them wide and low, palms up and gave a slight bow. The touching of the heart, followed by upturned palms indicated that no ill will or threat was intended, and the bow indicated by baring the neck and removing eye contact that the individual held no fear of the person they were greeting. Pio’s eagerness and trusting nature instantly endeared him to these men.

  Umniga tapped his shoulder and gestured toward Deo. Pio warily shook his head. Deo sat at the tiller, wearing his usual dour expression.

  Pio tried to cajole Umniga to teach him other words. Umniga shook her head, nodded toward Deo, folded her arms and stared out to sea.

  ‘Umni,’ came his small, pleadi
ng voice. Umniga remained resolute. The sullen silence continued between them, before Pio, with a deep breath, proceeded to make his way unsteadily to Deo.

  Deo appeared engrossed in steering the boat and pretended not to notice him. Slowly, Deo turned his head, looking down his crooked nose at Pio. Pio drew himself up and introduced himself, determined to make his pronunciation perfect; he then gave a formal half bow. When Pio rose, he met Deo’s severe gaze unwaveringly. Deo broke into a huge grin, proud of the boy.

  Deo leaned forward from the tiller and extended his hand to Pio. Pio’s eyebrows shot up; his courage deserted him. Deo took his hand and drew him forward. He stood Pio in front of him on a water keg, his arm steadying the boy. Once Deo proceeded to teach him how to steer the boat, Pio’s reticence vanished and his eyes lit with excitement. As they steered, Deo continued teaching him new words. Soon, however, Pio flagged. Deo felt his knees give way and caught him, and he was returned to his parents.

  Sometime later, Pio woke to see Umniga sitting in the same position, looking pensive. He sidled over with his flute in his hand, unable to resist the compulsion to be near Isaura and to play for her. Pio snuggled into Umniga’s side and curled his legs so they rested against Isaura. Wake up, Isa, please. Umniga listened to his rough, hesitant playing and stopped him. She smoothed a greasy salve on his lips, then bade him continue.

  With shut eyes she listened as she rhythmically stroked his head. The tune was rough and simple, but the salve soothed the pain of his cracked lips and his playing improved. Pio changed the tune, improvising slight alterations at first, adding little highs and lows to the melody, enhancing it more with each repetition until it became something altogether different. It swept her along, reminding her of the sweet new grass of spring, trees in bud bursting with life, the fresh smell after a rainstorm, the joy of childhood, and the safety of home. The entrancing tune ended with a plaintive trill of longing that beckoned her to return home. Its power stunned her. Umniga’s eyes shot open with shock and her hand stopped stroking. Pio looked quizzically at her, yet, reassured by her slight smile, he resumed his playing. The crew were unusually quiet, each yearning for home. Deo caught Umniga’s eye, his wonder and joy plain as he wiped his tears away.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BALDEV AND KARAN were camped near The Four Ways with fifty warriors each. They had been waiting for several days.

  ‘What’s taking the old bastard so long?’

  Karan, unperturbed by their wait, smiled at Baldev’s ranting. ‘If you had been summoned … commanded to appear by your enemies, you would make them wait too. It’s just a game to save face—to try to maintain power in the relationship.’

  ‘Relationship? Maintain power? We could just ride in there and take over,’ Baldev muttered.

  ‘Of course, but we don’t want to—even if he is rattling your gourd. Allow him his illusions.’

  Baldev grunted.

  ‘He’ll be here.’

  The Four Ways was a large lake at which was located the only bridge spanning The Divide. The Upper Divide flowed into the lake from the north and out at the east. The Farangine River flowed to Faros from the south-west end of the lake and the Mitta River flowed from the north-west end to the coast. Nowhere else was The Divide able to be crossed. In places the river was exceedingly wide; at others the northern banks presented a towering rock face. The Upper Divide originated near Gopindar, the home of the Bear Clan in the Northern Forests. It began from Falcon’s Lake, where another smaller river, The Falcontine, diverged from it and headed west to the sea. Here, across the Falcontine and the very beginning of the Upper Divide, the river could be crossed relatively easily. Yet, as it dissected Altaica, it widened, becoming a vast expanse after the Bear River joined it, moving sluggishly along until it encountered the lower rapids. Not far from these rapids lay Hunters’ Ford. This name was almost a misnomer. The river could be forded here by horse, but only for part of the year. With the lowland winter, spring rains, then the snow melt from the north, the time remaining that the river was actually fordable was slim. Even when it was passable, there was a danger from deep shifting holes that could break a horse’s leg.

  Karan and Baldev both looked up as a sentry posted at the stone bridge reached them. ‘My lords, Lord Shahjahan approaches.’

  The two men led their horses to the bridge, the quiet chink of their chain mail and the soft nickers of their horses made the only noise. Both wore a zirh gomlek: a coat of mail and chain lined with red silk that buckled up over many narrow engraved plates, which protected their torsos, yet allowed flexibility. Engraved metal dastanas protected their forearms, and metal greaves the lower half of their legs. Upon their heads they wore crested zirh kulahs: round metal helmets with mail coifs that protected their necks and the side of their faces. Karan’s zirh kulah was crested with a black feather and Baldev’s with a brown. They each wore an ornate kilij and matching daggers. Baldev wore two throwing axes that hung from a belt at his waist; the blades were engraved with the roaring maw of a bear. Karan’s horse bore his bow and arrows each in black quivers, embossed with a silver horse. The combined effect of weapons and clan engravings was one of beauty and menace.

  Shahjahan approached leisurely from the head of a column of troops, stopping at the far side of the bridge. Baldev and Karan handed their horses’ reins to the nearest guard.

  ‘My lord?’ the concerned guard asked. Realising that their lords were going to walk onto the bridge, the troops’ tension heightened perceptibly; each stood taller, more alert, poised. None were happy about the risk as their lords waited in the centre of the bridge. Shahjahan rode forward to meet them.

  ‘He insults our offer of trust,’ Baldev muttered.

  Karan shrugged. ‘He’s probably too old to get off and walk.’

  Shahjahan stopped before them. His horse was tense and fidgety. Froth dripped from its mouth as it tossed its head and showed the whites of its eyes. Karan and Baldev watched calmly—this was a game. Shahjahan was very subtly agitating his mount.

  ‘Baldev, Karan.’ He barely inclined his head.

  ‘Lord Shahjahan, well met,’ Karan replied smoothly. Baldev merely nodded. Gods, they’re not much different, Karan thought. Neither of them are subtle.

  Shahjahan couldn’t help but admire their courage. They were easy prey now. His horse stomped its feet and sidled around them. ‘Damn horse,’ he said without rancour, as it danced around Karan and Baldev to stand between them and their troops. This was followed by the restless sounds of the Horse and Bear warriors as they prepared to move forward. Their captains, at the fore, maintained control, holding up their hands, restraining the troops eager to protect their lords. Instantly, they stilled.

  Having seen the enemy preparing to move, the opposing Boar troops surged forward. Their superiors did not stop them. Shahjahan glared at them, bellowing, ‘Hold!’ He was disappointed that they had not shown the same discipline as their opposition.

  Karan drew his attention. ‘I think this game has gone on long enough, yes?’

  Shahjahan frowned at him, red in the face.

  ‘Do you really want to re-ignite the war?’

  Shahjahan appraised Karan. Just like his father, balls of steel and cool as ice. He glanced back at his troops, walked his now miraculously calm horse to the same side of the bridge as his men, then dismounted.

  Karan held out his arm to him first.

  Damn, he’s quick. Shahjahan grinned ruefully, grabbing his forearm in greeting and, not to be outdone, pulled him into an embrace. ‘Well met indeed, Lord Karan!’ He quickly released him to repeat the greeting with Baldev.

  ‘How do you want to do this?’ Baldev asked, irritated with the game and posturing.

  Shahjahan surveyed their troops. ‘You and your men can ride with me. It will be a good show of trust.’

  Baldev snorted. ‘And your own troops?’

  ‘Oh, they can ride around us.’

  ‘You mean encircle us, like bloody captives.’
r />   ‘Captives? Never.’

  ‘We’ll ride at the head with you, and our troops in columns behind their leaders. You on the outside.’

  Shahjahan shrugged. ‘Fine, whatever you want.’

  * * *

  They had made good time and stopped to rest the horses at Karan’s suggestion, but in reality he had seen the strain on the old clan lord’s face. The three men sat near one another as they ate. Their troops had separated into resentful clusters, several of which remained close and watchful of their lords.

  ‘You must know something,’ Shahjahan began. Karan noted the Boar Captain nearest stiffen on hearing this. He and Baldev paused in their repast, waiting—wary. Shahjahan grimaced. They would not like this, but it had to be done, better now than later. ‘Asha has been injured.’

  Baldev tensed. ‘How?’ came his curt reply.

  Karan waited, saying nothing, but vigilant of rising tension amongst all the troops.

  Shahjahan licked his lips, appearing briefly angry, then contrite.

  Unaccustomed disquiet filled Karan. He had never seen Shahjahan nervous; angry, bitter, ranting, rollicking with laughter—yes, but not nervous.

  Baldev’s frown deepened, and he put his hands on his knees in preparation to stand.

  ‘Peace, Baldev, peace.’ Shahjahan held out his hands. ‘It was not my doing and, by all that’s holy, I wish it had not happened, but it has. The perpetrator of the attack …’—at this Baldev shot to his feet—‘… has been punished and word of his shame spread.’

  Karan watched Baldev carefully, as his hands fisted and he began to pace. Shahjahan’s nearest guards began to move toward their master. He held up his hand, forestalling them without a word. Karan’s troops, in their strategic clusters, were alert and ready despite the fact that they had not moved.