Altaica

by Tracy M. Joyce

  Not taking his eyes from Baldev, Karan asked, ‘Who assaulted Asha?’ He needed his suspicions confirmed.

  Shahjahan’s face contorted. ‘Ratilal.’

  Baldev was rigid; his silent condemnation of Shahjahan chilled the air.

  Shahjahan looked even more uncomfortable, but Karan appeared unperturbed. Both were well aware that in his current state Baldev was more dangerous than if he were ranting.

  ‘Where is she?’ Baldev demanded.

  ‘On her way to Parlan, with Vikram and his handpicked guards.’

  Baldev glowered at Karan before stalking away from them, spitting out, ‘Time to go.’

  * * *

  The wind whipped strands from Umniga’s long grey braid about her face. It bit through her cloak, tangling it around her legs, while she walked beside Isaura’s unconscious form as she was carried from the boat. The others had been taken to the Sastravidya Lodge. She knew Deo would ensure that they were fed, tended and guarded.

  Glancing back at the ocean and the build up of dark clouds that had chased them homeward, she was grateful that they had returned safely. Deo’s son looked back too. ‘We were lucky the weather held. Rana and Jalal favoured us.’

  ‘I am thankful for that. I can think of few things more miserable than being at sea in a storm, with your father.’

  Nada approached her. ‘We’ve plenty of simple, plain soup for the survivors. I thought it would be easier on their stomachs and gods know they need it.’ Umniga, clearly distracted, did not reply. ‘Umniga?’

  ‘Hmm … Oh, yes—of course, Nada. It was well done. You know as well as I what they are likely to need.’ She paused. ‘Nada, can we take this one—Isaura—to your house first?’ Nada frowned. ‘I merely want to get her clean and examine her for injuries in privacy, then she can go with the others.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her relief that the girl would not be staying in her house was obvious.

  Once Isaura was placed on Nada’s table, Umniga cleared the room of everyone except Nada and herself. Nada watched as Umniga leaned heavily on the table, with her head bowed, muttering a prayer.

  The girl needs all the prayers she can get. She’s more dead than alive, Nada thought. Why bother trying to save her? I suppose if we clean her up now, we won’t have to do it later for her passage to the underworld. Concerned, she placed her hand on Umniga’s shoulder, to be greeted by worried, brimming eyes.

  Umniga inhaled deeply, composing herself and patted Nada’s hand. ‘Come, let’s see what’s to be done.’

  Carefully, they disrobed Isaura. They had to cut the lacing on her clothes as it was too stiff and encrusted with grime to be undone. Nada held the garments away from herself with disgust.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll ever get these clean.’

  ‘Burn them.’

  ‘What will she wear?’

  ‘You must have something old lying around that she can wear. Something that doesn’t fit the boys anymore—anything?’

  Nada stiffened. ‘I’ll find something,’ she muttered as she walked off.

  Umniga examined Isaura. The girl must have been fit and strong before this or she might not have lasted. She could see white striations on her upper inner thigh, but no bruising. Umniga picked up Isaura’s hand, examining it, flexing her fingers, wrist and elbow, feeling the movement for any sign of injury. She continued this process on both arms, ending each by moving the arm in the shoulder joint. Umniga wrinkled her nose as she checked her scalp and her hands became entangled in the girl’s hair.

  ‘Anything?’ Nada had returned with a bundle of clothes.

  ‘Nothing yet, other than that scar on her face. I can’t do anything for that.’ Umniga walked around the table and proceeded to examine the un-scarred leg, commencing at her feet and working her way to her hips in the same fashion as she had done for her arms. She placed both hands on the girl’s hip bones, pressed down gently, then moved to the side of her body with the scarred leg.

  Shaking her head in consternation, she moved to the girl’s feet and wrapped a cloth around the ankle of the injured leg for grip. ‘Hold her shoulders. No, hands under her armpits. Yes, perfect.’ Umniga gave an abrupt, vigorous tug on the cloth and leg. She then moved back to her hips and pressed her hands down on the girl’s hip bones, nodding to herself with a grim smile when she was finished. Bending over the striations on the injured leg, she ran her hands over the muscles, concentrating on the sensations under her finger tips, seeking anomalies as she did so. ‘Sorry little one, this will hurt,’ she muttered as she worked her fingers, back and forward, vigorously into the tissue. She grabbed the muscle then gave a brutal push. Umniga massaged the area. Satisfied, she straightened and caught Nada’s disbelieving gaze. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, but … I just think you might be wasting your time. Umniga, she looks half dead.’ The wind outside, which had been steadily gaining pitch, sent a defiant blast whistling down the chimney, gusting around them.

  ‘Only half dead.’ Umniga despondent, prayed Nada was wrong. ‘Will you help me clean her up?’

  Nada nodded, apologetic. ‘Who knows, maybe it will help wake her. The sensations, to know people are near …’

  Umniga narrowed her eyes; she was too old to be patronised.

  When they were finished, Nada tossed her wash-cloth into the bucket of water at her feet. ‘That’s as good as we can do under the circumstances,’ she said. They were both looking at her hair with disgust.

  ‘One of us has to wash it, before something takes up residence in it.’

  ‘We could just cut it,’ Nada suggested hopefully.

  Umniga shook her head. ‘I’ll do it, but first I must get something from my wagon.’

  With her cloak wrapped tightly around her, she made her way quickly to the small barn where her wagon had been stored. The world was becoming dark. Flashes of lightning illuminated the interior of the heavy clouds. She shivered. It was only by the grace of the gods that they were not out in this weather.

  She returned carrying a box containing several jars and a fine paint brush. Deo’s son had just left the kitchen, having carted in more water, and Nada was already washing the girl’s hair. Umniga covered her surprise quickly, with a ready smile of gratitude. ‘I thought you might have cut it after all.’

  ‘I was tempted—I still am,’ she said with distaste.

  ‘Nada, thank you.’

  Nada nodded brusquely in acknowledgement while continuing her work.

  Umniga broke the wax seal on a glazed jar and picked up a fine paint brush. Dipping the brush into the jar, she began to paint henna tattoos on Isaura. She painted the traditional oak and willow pattern around her ankles, wrists and finally, when Nada was finished with her hair, around her neck.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to keep her here. But this is all I can do for now. I need to mix more paste and let it sit.’ She rubbed her forehead in worry. ‘There’s so much more to do; I need Asha.’ The wind had continued unabated while Umniga worked, yet now it was subdued—waiting.

  * * *

  Asha sat before the campfire, barely able to keep her head upright. However, as Vikram dabbed bloodroot on her injuries, she became painfully alert.

  He saw her wince. ‘I’m sorry. I’m trying to be gentle.’

  ‘I know.’ The first night Vikram had treated her, when the guards had seen the extent of her injuries, they clearly had been angry. They had arranged the wagon so that the supplies of blankets and clothes formed a mattress on which she could sleep, rather than sleeping on the ground in a bedroll. Since then, she had not had to do anything other than eat, drink and ride; all of which were difficult enough. They took care of her horse, Honey, grooming and saddling her each morning and rubbing her down at night. She was grateful for their care, but it made her feel useless and ashamed. Once Vikram had finished treating her back, Asha awkwardly rearranged her shirt.

  She hung her head, tears in her eyes. Āsim, the older guard who had met her at
the barbican of the inner bailey, sat down beside her.

  ‘Asha,’ he quietly said. ‘Hold your head up, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re alive because you fought and you’ve left that bastard with a permanent reminder of your strength and his shame. Not everyone could do that.’

  She chose to stare into the fire rather than meet his eyes.

  ‘Head up. The guards were only staring because they couldn’t believe you could ride all day in your state, let alone without complaint and little rest.’

  Now she met his gaze with a puzzled look.

  Across the fire a young guard spoke up. ‘It’s true.’ Other voices from the semi-darkness murmured assent.

  Vikram said, ‘Asha, they are angry at Ratilal and Shahjahan. But they are proud of you.’

  ‘Asha, we help you because you are one of us,’ Āsim added. ‘There is no shame in it. Every warrior … At least every warrior who has fought a real battle …’ Here he eyed the young men scornfully, causing indignation to erupt around the campfire. ‘… gets injured at some point and his comrades help him. It is the way of things—there is no shame. We do this for each other. Now you have comrades to help. You are our Kenati, no matter what.’

  Asha was still embarrassed, but deeply moved.

  ‘Umniga has told you of the old tales—the tales of the Battle Kenati?’

  She nodded. ‘Every child learns of those.’

  ‘Not anymore, at least not in Faros.’ A fleeting look of sadness crossed his face. ‘In you, Asha, we will see a Battle Kenati like the tales of old.’

  We’re not at war. Then Asha realised what he had said. Battle Kenati? I’m not a Battle Kenati!

  Āsim saw her astonishment and gave her a crooked grin. Before she could question him, a voice carried clearly from across the fire. ‘Tell us, Asha, of the old tales. Tell us of Tarun and Safa.’ More voices murmured encouragement.

  ‘Shut up, you lot,’ Āsim interrupted, ‘and I’ll tell you of Tarun and Safa.’

  Vikram passed Asha some kirfir, a potent spirit. ‘Drink.’

  ‘I hate this stuff.’

  ‘Drink. Trust me, you’ll sleep like a log.’

  Her face registered disgust as she sipped some of the clear spirit.

  Āsim cocked an eyebrow at Vikram. ‘Well, pass it around, captain.’ The flask passed between them all as Āsim began the tale.

  ‘During the first clan wars, when the Boar Clan was mighty and drove first the Horse Clan, then Bear Clan into the north, there lived a brave warrior named Tarun—our clan lord’s son. Tarun was young and headstrong, but unbeaten in battle. He could throw a spear and hit his target from further than any other warrior. Once he met the great Bear warrior Kuhlchan on the field of battle and, riding at a gallop, he threw his spear so hard it pierced Kuhlchan’s gut, stuck out through his back, and jettisoned him from his horse.

  ‘Without his spear, Tarun hacked and slashed at the enemy with his kilij from his horse. When his horse went down, he fought on foot, wading his way through the blood and bodies of those he cut down. His men struggled to keep up. Having cut his way through the remnants of the Bear guard, he reached the body of Kuhlchan. He pulled his spear from Kuhlchan’s gut, then grabbed the fallen warrior’s mighty axe, severed his head with it and mounted it, dripping blood, upon his spear, which he thrust into the air with such a scream that it rang across the battlefield. It stopped the fighting as all eyes turned toward the disembodied head. The Bear warriors were devastated. Those who could fled to regroup. Many were taken prisoner. That night the Boar Clan was jubilant. Tarun had ended the battle. The warriors celebrated.

  ‘During the night a young female warrior of the Bear stole into the camp, unnoticed by all the sentries. Her name was Safa. Safa was small, blonde and tough—like our Asha.’

  This was not part of the original story. Asha opened her mouth to protest, but Vikram’s gentle pressure on her arm warned her not to.

  ‘When Tarun woke the next morning, it was to find Safa in his tent looking down at him with contempt. “Mighty warrior,” she spat at him. “So mighty that I could have killed you in your sleep.” Tarun was speechless—a first I might add—then he was livid. He leapt to his feet only to fall over, cursing; Safa had tied his boots together.’

  Quiet laughter rumbled around the campfire.

  Āsim continued, ‘He cursed. She laughed as she nimbly leapt behind him, grabbed a handful of his hair and wrenched his head back with her blade at his throat.

  ‘He demanded to know what she wanted. Safa told him, “You will meet our champion in the valley north of here in the morning. If our champion wins, you will return our warriors you hold prisoner, and end your pursuit of our clans.” Smiling she added, “The Horse are now with us.”

  ‘This was not what he expected, but Tarun thought he could not lose. Had he not already beaten their best warrior? “If we win, what then?”

  ‘Safa told him Horse and Bear would forever be subject to his rule. “Do you agree?”

  ‘She pressed the dagger a little more into his flesh. He had little choice.

  ‘Safa did not trust Tarun as far as she could kick him. She ensured that the agreement be witnessed before his captains and warriors. Tarun agreed to her terms. He was angry and humiliated that so small a woman—a girl really, he thought—could get past all his men and make demands of him. Demands he was now honour bound to fulfil or risk being shamed as a coward and oath breaker.

  ‘The next morning the clans met at the valley. It had a wide, flat bottom. The slopes at one end were lined with the combined clans’ warriors. At the other the Boar Clan had assembled. In the centre of the valley stood the champion for the combined clans, partially surrounded by their warriors, creating a semicircular shield wall. Tarun met their champion on the field. A cohort of Boar warriors completed the other half of the shield wall. They were now locked into the arena by their own troops.

  ‘An eagle’s cry was heard above and it echoed across the valley floor. Tarun spat in disgust when he recognised the slight warrior before him. It was Safa. She sat astride a small horse, waiting, her bow ready, arrow nocked. Tarun urged his horse a few steps forward, adjusting the grip on his spear. Each watched the other, waiting. Safa feinted, darting her horse forward directly at him. Her horse spun to the side as he threw his javelin. It narrowly missed her. She controlled her horse with only her legs, firing behind her as she rode.

  ‘The first arrow sliced the skin of Tarun’s horse’s rump, causing it to squeal and falter, but he urged it onward. The next glanced off his bronze helmet as he grabbed another javelin from the quiver hanging from his saddle, then another off his cuirass. Safa’s nimble little horse avoided the spears. Tarun reached for another javelin, sighted and threw. It flew straight and true, but Safa swerved and it embedded in the shield wall. Her horse was tiring, but her next two arrows impaled Tarun’s horse’s rump, yet another its chest. The horse screamed in pain, staggered and fell. Tarun catapulted through the air, hitting the ground hard and skidding through the dirt. Safa spun back on her horse, shooting an arrow into Tarun’s thigh before he could stand properly. His horse lay peppered with arrows. She dismounted beside it, slitting its throat to end its misery. “Ready to give up, mighty warrior?” she said.

  ‘ “You!” he roared as he broke the arrow shaft, leaving only a small protuberance from his leg. “What are you waiting for?” Safa taunted him. Enraged, he lunged at her with his kilij. He was a skilled swordsman. Even so, he still took Safa too cheaply. He did not know Safa was Kenati. The eagle was her guardian. Like Fihr is Asha’s guardian.’

  At this Āsim leaned forward, as if telling his audience a secret. Many had all heard this tale before, but Asha noticed the others all crowded in to hear what came next.

  ‘What Tarun didn’t know was that Safa was Kuhlchan’s sister. She was Kenati, yes, but her training was done sparring with her big brother. He’d taught her how to fight a larger, stronger opponent. But there was more—they had a sec
ret. Safa had all the skills of a Kenati, but she could merge with her eagle and still fight.

  ‘Safa wanted Tarun angry. She would use his anger and cockiness to her advantage. She was not wounded and she was quick. He was a good swordsman, but she danced around him, dodging his sword; often only narrowly avoiding his sharp blade. His leg was bleeding and he was tiring. Seeing this, she’d attacked and as she danced, her sword flashed in the sunlight. Tarun now found himself on the defensive. Safa’s blade, which had glinted wickedly at first, was now bloodied. She slashed at his arms and legs, until they were red from a thousand cuts.’

  Asha snorted in disbelief, but upon Āsim’s glare she restrained herself.

  ‘Finally, she sliced his leg above the arrow shaft. The leg buckled. Listing, he struggled to remain upright. She kicked the broken arrow shaft sticking out of his leg. He toppled sideways.

  ‘Her voice was as cold and hard as her steel. “Enough?” Tarun lashed out, attempting to grab her leg and make her fall. He was frothing at the mouth. The eagle landed on his head, digging its claws into his scalp, its wings flapping wildly before he dislodged it and it flew off.’

  Asha paled at this description.

  ‘Blood from his head wounds seeped into his eyes. He was having trouble seeing. Safa struck his face, her fingers now like talons, and she raked her hand down half his face and over his eye, blinding him.’

  Āsim paused and stared meaningfully at Asha, who was now conscious of the awestruck gaze of the younger guards.

  ‘He reeled back. Safa drove her talons into the slash in his injured leg and tore a piece of flesh from him and threw it to her eagle. Now her knife was at his throat. “Have you had enough, mighty warrior?” she said. He yielded and the clan lord honoured his son’s promise. Safa, the first Battle Kenati, ended the first clan war.’

  Asha could feel many eyes upon her. She quietly stood up, swaying a little. ‘Gods, I hate kirfir.’ She left the circle around the campfire, stumbling in the dark when an arm shot out to steady her.