Asena Blessed, page 1
part #2 of Altaica Series
Published by Odyssey Books in 2016
Copyright © Tracy M Joyce 2016
www.odysseybooks.com.au
A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia
ISBN: 978-1-922200-48-8 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-922200-49-5 (ebook)
Cover design by Karri Klawiter (www.artbykarri.com)
Map of Altaica by Magic Owl Design (www.magicowldesign.com)
(Based on colour original by Marilyn Jurlina)
DEDICATION
You can’t write books without a support team, and I have the best team helping me.
The following people have my thanks!
Michelle Lovi of Odyssey Books—you really are a ‘wonder woman’. Thanks for having faith in me.
My outstanding, overworked and definitely underpaid beta-readers—Bronny, Maz, Elleni, Jenna and Clive.
To my husband Robert, who has to put up with my constant state of vagueness because I’m pretty much always writing in my head.
To Matt Easton from Schola Gladitoria, who provided me with wonderful military information. Any errors of interpretation are mine alone.
To my fellow authors, Belinda Crawford, Jenny Ealey and Carl Sundstrom, Thank you for your unfailing encouragement, support, understanding, and at times forgiveness.
CHAPTER ONE
Isaura shook uncontrollably; goose bumps prickled her skin, her teeth chattered loudly. Memories flashed back to her. The Lady, the wolves … no, the Asena … and the old woman, Pio and his music. The fragments became whole. They had pulled her from her home, from oblivion. I suppose I should be grateful. Gods, where am I? The noise—everything was so loud. She curled on her side. Enough! Make it all stop!
A quiet voice spoke to her. Strong arms held her. After being unable to touch anything for so long, of thinking she would never be able to feel or hear anyone else, she was overwhelmed with emotion, with gratitude. His voice was so calm, so soothing. Safe.
Karan held a water skin to Isaura’s lips. She tried to hold it but fumbled. He tipped it slowly and she sipped at the water, too weak to do little else.
‘That’s it, but not too much now,’ he said softly as he withdrew the flask.
What’s he saying? I can’t understand. She tried to open her eyes, blinking furiously in the dull morning light. He pulled the hood of the cloak forward to shelter her face.
‘Thank you,’ Isaura murmured. Her throat burned. Gradually she opened her eyes and smiled gratefully at the man who held her.
Karan drew a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes were a deep green, but flecked with a glowing vibrant blue that also rimmed her iris. The same blue as eyes of the Asena.
Isaura instantly liked this face before her. Deep set, dark brown eyes scrutinised her from under prominent eyebrows. His face was framed by wavy dark hair; two curls strayed across his forehead. He had a close-cropped beard and a hawkish nose. Don’t let me go. He frowned; his face appeared tough and ruthless. Inexplicably, she felt hurt—as if somehow she had failed to measure up. He must have noticed her confusion, because he quickly smiled, transforming his face. Laughter lines crinkled around the edge of his eyes and she envisioned a man who could be strong, kind and … Gods girl, get hold of yourself!
Cowering against him she tried to take in her surroundings. A circle of people? Weapons? A forest clearing? Autumn leaves—red and yellow against the fog. Asena. My friends—they’re meant to be here. The Lady said they were here. Frantically she craned her neck searching for them. There! Gabi, Jaime, Curro … Elena. Ugh, some things don’t change.
A cry of anguish reached her. Lucia? Moving bodies blurred past her—one of them mountainous. Nic? Isaura struggled against the arms holding her, but soon gave up. She could barely speak, let alone break free.
Lucia and Nicanor scudded to a halt beside Pio. He lay curled on the ground, with his arm over the neck of the Asena and his face partially buried in its ruff.
‘Pio?’ Lucia asked worriedly as she shook him gently.
‘He merely sleeps,’ Asha said in a soft voice.
Lucia scowled, unable to understand her and angry that her son seemed to have been put at risk by the strange ritual. She looked with distaste at his flute lying on the ground. Magic. Pio had used magic. Nausea rolled through her.
‘Ma …’ Pio grumbled. ‘It’s too early to get up. Let me sleep.’
Lucia caressed his brow. ‘All right, sweeting, you sleep.’ The Asena’s fur brushed her arm. Lucia stiffened, her breath caught in her throat, yet the creature lay placidly beside Pio.
Isaura stirred in Karan’s arms. In a hoarse whisper she asked, ‘Pio? What’s wrong? Is he all right?’
Karan sensed her consternation and weakness. He guarded her as if she was precious and fragile. ‘Ssh, Bright One, ssh. All is well.’
‘Lucia?’ Isaura called out plaintively.
‘Isaura, Pio is well. Rest.’ Lucia darted a fearful look at Karan and the two Asena who surrounded Isaura. Isaura nodded and relaxed again into Karan’s embrace.
‘Umniga, are you with us?’ Karan asked softly. She did not reply. ‘Umniga?’ She had collapsed after the Ritual of Samara. Still in the position she had held in the circle of Kenati, she lay spread-eagled on her back. He nudged her with his foot.
‘Must you do that? I’m bone weary. How is the girl?’ she asked.
‘Overwhelmed, weak.’
‘The Asena?’
‘Only three remain. These two and the one with the boy.’
Asha and the other Kenati converged on Umniga and Karan. They helped Umniga sit up and began talking at once.
‘You’re all right!’
‘Thank the gods.’
‘It worked.’
‘Of course it worked!’ Umniga snapped.
Karan quirked his brow at this. ‘Without the Asena you would have been lost.’
Isaura moaned and held her hands over her ears. She tried to burrow deeper into Karan’s arms to escape the onslaught of the sudden babble.
‘Quiet, all of you!’ he commanded in a harsh whisper. They fell silent, chastened at the sight of Isaura’s cringing form.
‘Karan,’ Umniga said softly. ‘We should examine her.’
‘No. Leave her be. She’s been through enough. You will have time with her later, when she is stronger.’ He rose and strode back to the camp with Isaura in his arms.
* * *
Baldev’s eyes watered in the smoke that lingered low from the burning of the bridge and the fort. Sweat and grime covered his face while blood covered his armour. The smutty tang of the air coated his nose and when he wiped his face he tasted the bloody taint on his hands. Cries and groans of wounded men carried through the polluted air; injured horses squealed nearby. The roadway that led to the former bridge was barricaded. Their own partially built palisade could now be finished and improved upon without threat.
He summoned his captain. ‘Send a rider to Gopindar for reinforcements. Get word to Captain Javal at the northern-most watchtower on the Falcontine that the northern patrols will need to be stepped up. We need to get a move on finishing those last watchtowers and beacon fires.’ He jerked his head to indicate the palisade. ‘Eventually I want this transformed from a palisade to a fort; one day to a citadel.’
The captain nodded hurriedly.
‘Start construction on bridge towers and a bloody great gate behind those barricades. They’ll provide a good vantage point over the bridge foundations and lookout. Keep the enemy from rebuilding the bridge. Get the walls closest to the river rendered quickly to reduce fire risk. One day we’ll replace that bridge and I want something more permanent than these barricades barring the way. Go, see to it.’
Baldev wandered over to the picketed horses to check on their injuries. ‘How goes it?’ he asked an old warrior who was stitching a long cut that ran directly along the underside of a horse’s belly.
‘Not as bad as I’d expect. This one’s lucky, stitch it up and salve it; it’ll heal in no time. There’s a few with ’em bastards’ arras stickin’ out of ’em that won’t be much good for anythin’ for a while. But most will recover. Bloody lucky really.’
‘Can you care for them here?’
A thoughtful look crossed the wizened face. ‘Yep, if our medical kits get resupplied. Between the ’orses and the men, there’ll be bugger all left.’
Baldev nodded. ‘You will.’ A squeal caught his attention and he spied a horse with an arrow protruding from its rump.
One man stood at its head, another at its rear, calming the animal. A woman picked up its hoof, bent its foreleg tightly, and pressed her fingers into its chest. The horse lowered itself to the ground and they rapidly restrained it.
Baldev slowed as he approached them. ‘Well done,’ he said softly. ‘I thought you’d have trouble.’
One of the warriors knelt beside the horse, talking to him quietly while he covered its eyes with his cloak; others held the leg ropes tautly. The youngest, a teenager, sat at the horse’s rump with his med kit beside him. He stared anxiously at the arrow.
Baldev put his hand on his shoulder. ‘He’s yours?’
The boy nodded, pale and sweating.
‘Just do as I say, yes?’
He looked gratefully at Baldev.
‘You can’t pull it straight out. You will have to make a wider cut next to it and then you will be able to work it out.’ Baldev smiled encouragingly. ‘That’s it, well done … a bit more, it’s deep …’
The horse squirmed under the
‘Don’t look so pale, boy.’ Baldev passed him a needle and silk. ‘Stitch it up. You’ve done it.’ Baldev sprinkled a brown powder on the outside of the cut and the horse’s leg restraints were removed.
The young man wiped the sweat from his forehead, getting out of the way as his trembling horse quickly stood. Not taking his eyes from his horse, he said, ‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘Just let him rest.’ Baldev patted him sympathetically on the back. ‘He’ll recover and lead you to victory another day.’
The boy smiled and nodded before fainting.
‘Ah, shit!’ Baldev cursed. He pulled him clear of the horse and lay him down on the grass. His armour showed no sign of damage. Wadded up in the band of his pants, at the base of his cuirass, was a bloody length of cloth. ‘Young fool.’ Baldev scooped him up and made for the field hospital inside the palisade walls. He left him there, saying simply, ‘See what you can do.’
Every clan member learnt basic healing skills, from the time they were children. As warriors they each carried a simple medical kit of supplies. They had to know how to tend to their own injuries and those of others in the field—the sooner they were treated, the sooner they could fight. Warriors who were less able-bodied or too old often became more specialised in healing, thanks to experience and extra training from the Kenati. Yadav was one such warrior.
Baldev spied his grizzly old face amidst a cluster of warriors. A roar tore through the air and Yadav staggered back. More warriors around him leapt forward to bear down upon something. Baldev strode over to help, finding them restraining a large young man whose lower leg had been shattered. A flat blade sat heating in the nearby fire. ‘Yadav?’
Yadav looked up with a scowl. ‘What?’ Seeing Baldev, he grimaced then shrugged. ‘What, my lord?’ Yadav growled in consternation as the young man struggled again. ‘For the love of the gods! Just let me pour the bloody poppy juice down your throat!’
Baldev pushed past the warriors, put both his hands on the patient’s shoulders and pinned him in place. ‘Be still!’
‘They’ll take my leg. Don’t let them take my leg!’
‘BE STILL! It’s your leg now, or your life later. You either let them give you the juice, or we’ll take your damn leg without it. Make up your mind, boy!’
The young man opened his mouth to speak. Baldev grabbed his jaw, pressing his thumb and index finger into his cheeks, preventing him from closing his mouth. Yadav poured the poppy juice down his throat; Baldev held his mouth closed until he swallowed. The youth glared at him.
Baldev was blunt. ‘Don’t look at me like that. We’re going to save your life. It’s the lower part of your leg, below the knee; once you’re healed you’ll still be able to ride, shoot, fight and bed a woman!’
‘You’ll be back in the saddle in no time,’ a gruff voice said. Wry grins broke out among those around him.
‘Understand?’ Baldev asked.
The youth nodded reluctantly.
‘Good, because I have work for you when you are well.’ Baldev gestured to two men near him to replace him in pinning down the young man’s shoulders. A piece of thick leather was placed between his teeth. Joining Yadav at the lower end of the table, Baldev put all his strength into holding the boy’s legs still. ‘Gods, what a mess.’
Yadav removed his tools from boiling water. ‘Blade went right through the muscle and got stuck in the bone. Bugger it! It’d have been easier for us if it had gone all the way through.’
‘Just cut it off,’ Baldev said bleakly. At the first cut the young man passed out.
Yadav worked quickly, sawing through bone, tying off the large blood vessels.
‘Stop,’ Baldev said quietly.
‘Pass me the cauterising blade,’ the old warrior said without looking up.
‘Stop, Yadev. He’s gone.’
Heads bowed, the warriors stepped solemnly back from the table. With a flick of his head Baldev dismissed them.
Yadav’s tired face twisted in bitterness. ‘I hope those strangers are worth it.’
‘Ratilal would have made his move eventually,’ Baldev grunted. ‘It’s better that we deal with him now, before he gains more strength.’
Yadav didn’t answer.
Baldev thought of the battle, of the men—of this young one, of the horses, and he prayed to the gods that it wasn’t all for nothing.
* * *
One of Vikram’s eyes was black and swollen and the white of the other was bloody. He struggled to see clearly as he sat beside Deo in the wagon while they made their way back to Ratilal. Every bump and rut of the dirt roads jolted through the unsprung old wooden cart and sent pain lancing through his ribs. They had stopped at numerous farms where Deo had spoken to the locals. He had no idea what Deo had said and he didn’t care, but they now had a ramshackle convoy carrying the wounded from Parlan.
Nada had taken charge of caring for the wounded; she sat in the rear of Deo’s wagon keeping a sharp eye on them. She had enlisted the newcomers to help and they had proved themselves useful. Vikram hoped it would pacify Ratilal. The villagers from Parlan had the flimsiest of excuses for not aiding his men during the short battle—if they didn’t appear to help now in every way, they would face his wrath. His thoughts strayed to Asha—nobody deserved that.
Well into the morning, their convoy encountered Ratilal’s battered band camped off the roadside near the valley in which they had been ambushed. All those in the convoy stared in silent shock at the number of wounded and dead men and horses. Ratilal sat on a throne of salvaged tack. He stood at the sound of wagons and, with Niaz beside him, limped towards them.
Vikram had witnessed Ratilal’s anger before, yet he had never seen his face like this; it unnerved him. He appeared calm, though his eyes were glassy, cold and hard.
Ratilal’s words were clipped as he took in Vikram’s battered appearance. ‘What. Happened. To. You?’
‘Karan returned with a band of his men, ambushed us, we battled, and lost. They beat me halfway to Karak, tied us up, locked us in the lodge, took a few of the strangers, and left with Umniga and Asha.’
‘Umniga! Asha!’ His face coloured and his hard, cold eyes took on a manic gleam. ‘Did they seem aware that he was coming?’
‘They gave no sign of it earlier, yet they must have known something for they aided the ambush.’ The words left a sour taste in his mouth, though he knew no alternative to utter.
‘Bitches!’ Ratilal spat. ‘Damn those bitches to Karak! They have betrayed their clan. I will flay them alive if I catch them. I …’
Niaz put a hand on Ratilal’s arm and whispered. Ratilal shrugged off his hand, but subsided sullenly.
He appeared thoughtful for a moment, before looking cunningly at Deo and the others. ‘Did no one help you? Did no one hear the fighting and come to your aid?’
Deo’s fists clenched the driving reins. Before Deo could speak, Vikram replied, ‘Many had gone home to their outlying farms, so had no knowledge of the battle.’
‘The others?’ Ratilal demanded.
‘The others were too drunk to hear …’
‘Too drunk! Ah! They were not drunk when we began our chase …’
Vikram shifted in his seat, deliberately wincing, drawing Ratilal’s attention away from Deo. ‘They were difficult to rouse and reeked of ale.’ Deo did not reek of ale when Vikram ‘woke’ him, but he did now. Clever old bastard.
Deo cleared his throat. ‘Aye, we was well on the way when you gave chase to those bastards.’ He spat on the ground in disgust. ‘But at the news of the murder of your father, we drank some more in misery, then some to bless his journey. We slept like logs.’
Well done, old man, Vikram thought.
Ratilal pursed his lips, muttered to Niaz and flicked his head in their direction. Niaz approached and within three feet of Deo he wrinkled his nose as he took in his dishevelled appearance. Looking back at Ratilal, he nodded. A look of disappointment crossed Ratilal’s face, but the mask of control slipped back onto his visage.
‘Vikram, get down from that wagon and report fully. Niaz, find room for the wounded on this convoy. They need to get to Faros, where we can better care for them. Leave those with minor wounds to see to the injured horses. Find a farm nearby where we can take them. We’ll probably lose most of the horses, but send supplies and help anyway. The injured are in the care of these good people.’ He gestured to the locals driving the wagons. ‘Consider it payment for your laxity in aiding Vikram and my men. Take very good care of them, make sure they all survive or you will incur my wrath. The levies will be called and your village shall lead by example, providing all its able-bodied men.’
