Altaica

by Tracy M. Joyce

  Altaica

  Published by Odyssey Books in 2014

  ISBN 978-1-922200-31-0

  Copyright © Tracy M Joyce 2014

  www.odysseybooks.com.au

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia

  ISBN: 978-1-922200-31-0 (pbk)

  ISBN: 978-1-922200-32-7 (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)

  Author website: www.tracymjoyce.com

  DEDICATION

  To the military historian in the family, my husband Robert, in thanks for his love, support, excellent library and scholarship!

  To my dear friends and tireless ‘beta-readers’: Bronny and Marilyn. Wow! How can I ever thank you for your endless enthusiasm and hard work. You gave me faith in myself.

  The final test—Thanks to Clive and Elleni.

  To Michelle and Jess for getting it all in shape.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  ISAURA HAD TAKEN a chance coming here. She desperately hoped that she had not made the wrong choice by giving in to her curiosity. Time was precious and although she started out early, she had yet to make it home. She kept up a brisk pace and negotiated the steep, increasingly rocky, goat path up Mt Majula. Isaura wove between tall pines, her lithe frame moving quietly and fluidly from their shadows into the patches of early morning sunlight that dotted the path. She paused when the track wended its way down an overgrown ridge. Drawing a deep breath, Isaura left the path and began scrambling nimbly up the ridge among the large rocks. The trees grew steadily more sparse and spindly as she climbed. The air was bracing, reddening even her tanned cheeks; her breath became laboured as the way grew more arduous.

  Her pace had slowed, yet, driven by dread, she surged up the last section of her climb. At the base of an enormous flat boulder, she bent over with her hands on her knees to catch her breath. Straightening, she looked with determination at the lip of the rock just above her. Isaura jumped, latching onto the rock edge with her fingers. She scrabbled for purchase with her boots, levered herself up and dragged her body onto its flat top. She loved this spot; it was her refuge, but after today she would no longer have it. She knew there was no time to think like that; besides there was so much about life here she wouldn’t miss.

  Walking to the other side of the rock, she surveyed the wide plains below her. They’re already here! Stretched out along the plains, a vast column of Zaragarian troops marched toward her with row upon row of cavalry, foot soldiers, siege weapons and wagons. Devastation lay in their wake. From her perch, Isaura could see the huge pillar of grimy, sooty clouds that billowed above the burning market town of Santente. Smaller spires of smoke and blackened land pockmarked the rest of the plain, as if some malignancy had infected it.

  Isaura was mesmerised by the orderly march of this enormous army and fancied she could hear the rhythmic pounding of boots as they flattened the land beneath them. Her eyes were drawn to the smoke and the pall that hung over the horizon. The contrast between the chaos they had inflicted and the regimented order and discipline of the army sickened, fascinated and terrified her—this was an immense, relentless, ruthless machine.

  Zaragaria, a desert country with few fertile tracts of land, lay in the west. For generations the warlike tribes there had feuded amongst themselves, posing no threat to the rest of the land. They were looked upon as a rabble of inferior savages. However, Aitor I, the great grandfather of the current Zaragarian Emperor, had united them with promises of riches and freedom from the harsh life of their desert home. No longer a rabble, they conquered their neighbours. Word of their brutality spread. Their need for land was satisfied but Aitor’s need for power was not. Steadily they increased their influence, conquering more countries through war, politically astute marriages or murder. Arunabejar stood in their way and, while lacking in mineral resources, it was fertile farming land—perfect for supplying an army. It was a food bowl and a gateway to those few remaining lands the Zaragaria had not yet conquered. With a relatively small army, it never stood a chance.

  Isaura had never prayed. There were too many religions and so many gods now, each claiming theirs was the true way, that she thought them all ridiculous. To whom would she pray, even if any of them were real? Now, however, as a wave of dread and nausea settled in her stomach, she thought perhaps if ever there was a time for a prayer, then this was it.

  ‘Majula, you and Araceli are the oldest gods; the father and mother of all. My friends keep to the old religion, they pray to you. Keep them safe.’ She stared at the host arrayed in the distance below her. ‘Please keep them safe. Give me the skills to help them.’ A zephyr curled around her, brushing her face gently, then was gone.

  Anxious to leave, she spun around to lower herself from the boulder. As she did she was distracted by a distant glint. The river snaked through Laguta, on their border, through the plains and forests of Arunabejar to the sea. She stared hard, squinting, wishing to see it again to be sure. ‘No. Surely not? Damn it! They’re on the river too.’ Dismayed, her thoughts raced to the old river barge she was to sail to rendezvous with her friends in order to escape. Panicking, Isaura leapt from her lookout and scrambled down the slope at a frantic pace. Her feet slipped and she skidded on her backside onto the narrow goat trail, dislodging stones and sending them careening down the hillside. She leapt up and pounded along the trail, her earlier fatigue vanishing in the face of her fear.

  As she descended, the trees allowed only speckled patches of early morning light to penetrate the canopy. Isaura paused, breathing deeply, one hand braced against a tree trunk, her lungs and throat afire. Something whizzed past her face. She spun around just as an arrow lodged in the tree next to her. Oh shit! Scouts. Please, get me out of this. Think, girl. Isaura surged forward, reserves of energy she was unaware she possessed renewing her flight.

  As she fled, a voice called out. ‘C’mon, I told you someone was up there. Those rocks didn’t tumble down for no reason. Get her!’

  Her blind panic subsided as she ran; Isaura was assessing, planning. She knew at least two were behind her. A branch snapped somewhere to her left. There’s another! Come on, Isa. You know this place, they don’t—think! Not following any obvious path, she ducked, weaved, and leapt through the vegetation hoping to lose them. Isaura heard them cursing as they tripped over fallen branches, which she had jumped, in the dim light. A smile crept across her face, but vanished quickly as she realised that those behind still dogged her. There were no further noises to her left, yet her instincts told her the scout was still there.

  Veering to the right, she connected with a clear, well-travelled animal path. She heard the two behind her stumble onto the clearer path.

  ‘We have her now!’ More footfalls joined theirs in the pursuit. The narrow trail continued downhill amongst a multitude of tall tree ferns, whose fronds arched over the path, reducing the light even further. It angled around a steep slope littered with generations of fallen debris, forcing her pursuers to keep to the trail.

  Finding another burst of speed, she put as much distance between herself and the enemy as she could, before she rounded a bend and the path widened. Isaura peered at the left side of the path. A mammoth tree trunk lay half buried on the outer limit of the path. Over the years more ferns had grown on and around it. Gingerly, struggling to stop her hands shaking, she parted the fronds of a large fern, revealing a dark hole between the trunk and the track, whose entrance was narrower than she remembered.

  Shit! Please fit, please fit, please …

  Heart pounding, Isaura carefully lowered herself into the hole, trying not to
break any fronds as she passed. She cursed as she felt more dirt crumble away around her. She wedged herself under the tree trunk, concealed by the overhang it created. Precariously balanced and clinging tenaciously to a tree root, she struggled to maintain firm footing. Peering down, Isaura was grateful that the dirt she had dislodged had not cascaded far down the slope. Would they see it? The wait for her pursuers seemed interminable. Where are they? The forest was quiet—waiting. The temptation to look gnawed at her. Isaura heard the soft scuff of a boot—close. They were right above her. Barely breathing, she fervently hoped the now wider hole remained concealed. She began to sweat and her hands felt slippery on the tree root. Teeth gritted, she prayed, Please. Gods, please … A terrified squeal nearly slipped from her as guttural voices sounded overhead.

  ‘We’ve lost her.’

  ‘We can’t have …’

  ‘She was running like a rabbit, she’s probably ahead of us somewhere.’

  ‘This is a waste of time. It’s just a girl …’

  ‘She could be a scout.’

  ‘Did she look like a bloody scout?’

  ‘What was she doing out here then?’

  There was a pause, as if they were waiting for instructions. The silence stretched. Isaura waited. Finally, a harsh voice said, ‘Enough. We’ve orders. We’ll head back to the others. Follow this path for a bit. If my instincts are right we’re not far from the forest road anyway. If you see her, then you can have your fun.’

  She did not hear them leave. Isaura’s heart was pounding. Her instincts screamed, Don’t move. It’s a trick. She waited until the forest noises began to return; only then did she leave her cover and head for home, praying she was not too late.

  * * *

  Breathless, sweaty and dirty, Isaura slowed to a walk when she entered the forest clearing that sheltered her home. She did not want to appear panicked in her father, Hugo’s, presence; it would only start another argument and she needed no delays. Isaura had not made up her mind what to do about him. She and her friends had agreed to flee downriver from the enemy rather than stay. Months ago, they had acquired an old river barge, and had kept it camouflaged in the overgrown backwaters of the river not far from her home while they repaired it.

  However, Hugo wanted no part in their plan. He was adamant that they would be safe in their home. This little clearing was his refuge and he rarely left it. Isaura had no idea what her father was seeking refuge from and asking had always resulted in him withdrawing inside himself. Days of silence followed, which were tempered only by his surreptitious resentful looks. Mama, I wish you were alive—you could always handle him.

  Hugo spotted her the moment she slipped into the clearing. ‘What happened to you?’ His abrupt voice travelled from the herb garden. He received no reply. His slight frame became rigid as he drew himself up to his full height; his bald pate shone in the sunlight. Isaura always thought he looked ridiculous when he adopted this imperious stance, yet today she couldn’t laugh. His bushy grey eyebrows drew down as he scowled; his old hazel eyes bored into hers. ‘You went up the mountain again, didn’t you?’

  Isaura nodded, still deep in thought.

  ‘Well, what did you see?’

  ‘The Zaragaria—they are coming. Father, I have never seen so many soldiers.’ She paused. ‘They are in the forest.’

  Eyes wide with fear, he asked, ‘Did they see you? Were you followed?’ The questions shot out of his mouth like accusations.

  ‘They chased me, but I led them away; I lost them.’

  ‘I told you we will be fine. They will not find this place.’

  ‘You didn’t see the size of their army. You know their reputation. Those who don’t get killed will wind up as slaves.’

  Hugo narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you are still in favour of this insane scheme to escape. It’s madness. They’ve no idea what they are doing. I knew I shouldn’t have believed you. I should have untied that damn boat and let it float down river. I trusted you!’

  ‘I am concerned for my friends, that’s all. I have to take the boat to them; now I can pass on the news.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’d bother. You know what they think of us.’

  ‘Nic and Curro are not like that …’

  ‘Hmf. Don’t you believe it girl. Deep down they all think the same. You’re a throwback to your mother’s kind. You wait—push comes to shove and you’ll see. You mark my words.’

  Isaura held up her hands placatingly before heading into the cabin.

  ‘Make me tea before you go,’ Hugo ordered.

  Inside the cabin, Isaura placed the kettle on the hob, barely restraining the urge to slam it down. I haven’t got time for this! Her insides began to churn. He’s not right. I have friends here, good friends. She paced, waiting for the water to boil. She had to decide what to do about him. Her instincts told her to leave him, but her conscience kept bringing her mother’s face and words into the forefront of her mind. How often had her mother told her how much they owed to him? How their life would have been different if he had not found her mother. She knew her mother had been right, though it was a bitter pill to swallow. Finally, a chance to escape and her conscience was nagging her to save an old man, who was quite possibly insane.

  Twenty years ago, her mother and Hugo had fled here. They had found this cottage abandoned and claimed it. They were foreigners in a backward country where all strangers were regarded with suspicion. To make matters worse her mother was from the Hill Clans of Matyran—a race about whom more was whispered than known. The Hill Clans had become more reclusive after the Great War when mages unleashed raw power and wreaked havoc throughout the land. Magic was despised and feared, particularly amongst the lowlands, like Arunabejar, which had been devastated during the fighting. The Hill Clans were rumoured to use magic. Isaura thought it was a myth concocted by the ignorant.

  Luckily at the time the village had lacked a healer—something in which her mother was highly skilled. Her mother had worked hard at gaining acceptance here, for Isaura’s sake; her knowledge and her gentle disposition eventually saw her succeed. Upon her death Isaura had inherited her role, though she knew she could never fill her mother’s shoes.

  The kettle was boiling. Absently, Isaura fetched the teapot, placing it on the bench. She stared at the teapot as if it might bite her. Where’s Hugo? She looked through the kitchen window and frantically scanned the garden for him. Finally she spied him about to straighten up from his labours and venture inside. Hastily filling the waiting pot with hot water, she quickly grabbed two pottery mugs. Isaura ran to her medicine satchel, fished out a small container, unstopped it, and sprinkled some powder into one of the mugs. ‘Shit!’ she cursed when a liberal amount escaped the vial. ‘Damn!’

  Hearing Hugo stomping his boots clean outside the cabin door, she hastily stoppered the container, tossed it into her bag and raced back to the kettle and teapot. Taking a deep breath, she feigned nonchalance, poured tea into both mugs and then put two huge spoonfuls of honey into Hugo’s tea, cringing as she did so.

  ‘Why the face?’

  Isaura hoped her fright was not evident. ‘You have your tea so sweet, I don’t know how you stand it.’

  He shrugged and sat down at their small table as she passed him his mug. ‘How much honey did you put in it?’ he groused. ‘Ugh.’

  Isaura looked at him quizzically.

  ‘It’s too hot.’

  She took the mug from him and added some cold water. ‘Better?’

  He nodded as he sipped his tea.

  Come on old man, I haven’t got all day.

  ‘I’m sorry, Isaura, I should have known you would keep your word to your friends—and to me.’

  She stared hard at him, but nodded.

  ‘I know you have made the right choice. We will be safe here. We have always been safe here. Your mother and I chose this spot because it is hard to find.’ He paused, savouring the tea, never noticing Isaura gazing at his cup like a hawk. ‘
Should we be discovered, we will still be safe. Every army needs healers, girl. All will be well, mark my words.’

  Deluded old fool.

  ‘This really is very good tea.’ He stood up. ‘I think I’ll have some bread … Oh my … By the gods … I feel …’ Hugo looked at the mug, then at Isaura with dawning horror. ‘What did you do?’ He took a step toward her, then collapsed.

  Isaura nudged him with her foot. Satisfied with the lack of response, she gathered her medical bag, bow and arrows, threw as much food into a sack as she could and raced to the old river barge. Reaching the barge, she ran nimbly up the gangplank and tossed her things inside the small cabin. She looked at the mooring line. I could just go …

  ‘Damn it!’ She dashed back to her home, grabbing the wooden wheelbarrow from the garden as she passed through. Trundling it into the kitchen, she looked with disgust and exasperation at Hugo’s still form. Isaura hastily threw some bedding in the bottom of the wheelbarrow, then bent down to pick him up. Her heart skipped a beat as she wondered if he was still breathing. She placed her hand upon his chest, sensing its faint rise and fall. Thank the gods! She couldn’t help but smile at this thought. Calling on the gods again? Maybe you are reforming.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘WE CAN’T STAY; you know that. You know what the soldiers will do to us,’ Curro said.

  ‘But … have we enough supplies … our things …?’ Elena replied.

  ‘It will be enough.’ His grey eyes softened as he took her small hand in his large calloused one. ‘We’ve been over this. We have water, tools, food, some weapons, all waiting there. With what the others have organised, we should have enough to follow the river downstream to the ocean. Then we can sail along the coast to Matryan and be safe.’

  Elena’s terrified eyes toughened with resolve. She picked up her pace; the others would be waiting. ‘Let’s hope Isaura will be there,’ she muttered.