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.
Curro stiffened. ‘She will be. Ever since we were children, she has always done what she said she would.’
‘So you and Nic keep telling me.’
Curro dropped her hand. ‘I’m sure the others will tell you that as well. Ask Lucia, Dan, Jaime or Gabi—they all grew up with her. They know …’
‘Of course. But you and your brother are …’
‘We are like her brothers. She is only five years younger than me. You grew up with her too; you know what she’s really like.’
Elena opened her mouth to argue. Curro raised his finger and placed it gently upon her lips, silencing her. He lowered his forehead to hers, then cupped her face in his hands. Her brown eyes softened, and the tension in her round, fair face eased and the soft smile he loved so well teased the corners of her lips. Curro traced the outline of her lips with his thumbs before kissing her. He straightened his tall frame with a sigh and ran his hand through his cropped dark hair. ‘We’ve no time for this,’ he said apologetically.
They headed off again. Curro looked back over his shoulder. ‘I’m sure ours is not the only village to think of this. We’re bound to see others on the river.’ He readjusted the rolled leather bundles in his hands; one contained the basic tools of a smith, the other weapons. ‘It’s wide—if we stay in the middle we should be out of harm’s way. I just wish we were sailors,’ he finished with a grin.
With a wry grin, Elena shook her head. How he could joke at a time like this was beyond her.
Both became subdued as they walked through the deserted village. It had never been a bustling place, yet the absence of human activity was unnerving. A roaming dog raced around the corner of a building after a chicken. The couple jumped in fright: the sound was unnaturally loud in the dead village. The chicken’s high squawk was abruptly cut off. All they could hear was birdsong and the whisper of the breeze through the leaves. It should have been soothing, but Elena shuddered.
‘What’s wrong?’ Curro asked.
‘This. It’s wrong … It just feels so wrong.’ She shuddered again.
Curro smiled gently. ‘It’s just empty, that’s all.’ He placed his arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze. ‘Come on. Let’s not linger here.’ Looking around the village, he silently cursed his nagging doubts. Anyone not coming on the boat, unless too old, had already fled overland. Is this really the right thing to do? Curro thought. He caught Elena’s worried glance. If his wife doubted him, then how easy would it be for others to doubt him as well? ‘Are you with me, Leni?’
She nodded.
‘Good. This is the best way.’
They hiked in silence, with Elena still nervously looking over her shoulder as they took the shortcut through the wood. She clutched Curro’s hand. Her eyes darted furtively from shadow to shadow. A stick cracked to her left. She began to quake.
Curro kept her hand firmly in his, encouraging her along.
Nearing the edge of the wood, they could hear raised voices. Curro gently extricated his hand from Elena’s grip and crept forward to observe from behind cover. Gathered in the clearing on the bank of the river were the villagers, standing amongst a vast array of household goods. A massive chest was balanced precariously in a wheelbarrow, and someone had even brought a feather mattress. He could see his friends, Jaime and Daniel, amidst the crowd, yet Curro remained concealed—waiting.
Jaime and Daniel were twins. Jaime was a miller, tall and broad shouldered. Daniel was a weaver, wiry and slight of frame. Both had a quick wit, a keen eye and a mischievous sense of humour. Right now their outraged faces blazed as red as their hair. Jaime was vibrating with anger. Daniel, although clearly annoyed, was trying to pacify him.
Jaime bellowed in disbelief. ‘You can’t bring that.’
‘But it’s been in my family for years,’ exclaimed the pompous, rotund matron.
Elena giggled nervously beside Curro.
He looked at her sharply. ‘Ssh!’
‘Oh? Shall I tell your husband that we can’t fit him in because you want to take your china instead?’ Jaime was seething. ‘Or shall I tell Bertran the baker that he will have to leave his two children behind?’ He was met with shamed silence.
‘Now, now, Jaime, don’t be so disagreeable,’ Daniel chirped. The matron’s eyes lit with renewed hope. ‘Come, Jaime, give me a hand.’ Daniel grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow, staggering a little under the weight.
Jaime frowned. He wasn’t in the mood for this. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed as he steadied the load.
Winking, Daniel upended the wheelbarrow in the river. The chest and its contents sank like a stone. There was a quiet chorus of giggling from the children present. ‘Now,’ he said gleefully, ‘we’re going to check what you’re all planning to take. Unless we approve, it doesn’t get on the boat.’
‘Who are you to tell us what to do?’
‘You’ve no authority over us!’
‘No right!’
More angry voices added, ‘Why should we listen to you?’
A deep baritone voice carried clearly across the crowd. ‘Because I said so.’
Nicanor the carpenter, Curro’s elder brother, had arrived with his wife, Lucia, and their young son, Pio. Nicanor’s broad form towered over the crowd. His calm grey eyes bored into the troublemakers, challenging them. He carried an oblong chest made from a pale timber. The lid was meticulously inlaid with the carved head of a bear in a variety of wood. Its visage rose out of the timber slightly, its eyes, ears and the wave of its fur all accentuated by the ingenious use of different coloured wood.
‘Are you going to dump his chest in the river too? I doubt it,’ a caustic voice queried.
‘This chest is a fraction of the size of the one Daniel threw out. This chest contains my tools. The very tools I used to make ready this boat. It is an example of my work and will stand me in good stead when we reach Matryan. We have not brought any excess or unnecessary baggage.’ He took a deep breath, then continued sarcastically. ‘It would be tragic to all die at sea because we couldn’t fit enough supplies in, because we took someone’s china with us instead.’ How can you be so damn shallow? Nicanor silently fumed, running his hands through his sun bleached, sandy brown hair. ‘You only need those things necessary to survive and start a new life. Taking anything more is foolishness.’
Grudgingly, they began re-sorting their belongings.
Jaime grinned at Nicanor, whispering, ‘Now the real question is where is the barge? I’m not sure if even you can calm this lot if Isaura doesn’t arrive with the bloody boat soon.’
Curro, who had been observing from the edge of the woods, chose that moment to step forward with Elena. Nervous, she instinctively moved to Lucia and Pio’s side. Curro, Jaime, Daniel and Nicanor entered the nearby mill and brought out their belongings from storage, all the while discretely listening to the bickering of the villagers, alert for any further escalation of tension amongst the group.
Pio had seated himself at his mother’s feet and was absently playing his new wooden flute. Gradually his hesitant melody, the bleating of the milking goats, and the clucking of a few chickens were the only sounds to be heard. He looked up, acutely aware that his flute was unusually loud. Self-consciously he stopped, looking at the crowd of people gathered on the riverbank; standing, he reached for his mother’s hand. Lucia drew him close to her, placing her hand protectively on his head.
‘Where’s the boat?’
‘She’s late.’ People craned their necks from the end of the small jetty, fervently hoping to see the barge approach.
‘Where is she?’
‘Shouldn’t trust her kind …’
Nicanor again appeased the crowd. ‘Come, neighbours, be calm. We all know Isaura will be here. She’s probably had her hands full this morning. We all know what Hugo is like, don’t we?’
‘Gods, she’s not bringing him, is she?’
As Nicanor spoke, the barge rounded the river bend. A gasp coursed through the crowd; this was their first sight of it. The figurehead featured the graceful and muscular shoulders and neck of a horse poised and arched in play. The horse had large expressive eyes, slightly flaring nostrils and a full mane that was carved as if the wind was blowing its strands in graceful curves. The reflected light from the rippling water animated the carving to such an extent that its muscles appeared to move.
Originally, the barge had been designed purely for carrying cargo on rivers, being long, wide and of a relatively shallow draught. A small low cabin and galley was located at the stern of the boat. There was also a series of oars along the sides, and a single mast with a square sail in the centre of the deck. A part of the tight space in the hold was fitted with special pens for small livestock, while the rest was to be taken up with barrels containing foodstuffs, grain and water. A section of the flat wide deck was covered with an awning.
Manning the tiller was a lean young woman of dark complexion and hair. Isaura’s long hair was pulled back in a single braid; her green eyes missed no detail before her. She could see Curro and Nicanor waiting on the bank, Nicanor towering above his brother. Pio raced forward, waving at her excitedly, his shaggy brown hair bouncing up and down with the rest of him. Lucia quickly grabbed him, hauling him back from the river’s edge. Her long brown curly hair became disarrayed by her tussle with her son. Just behind them the small crowd of villagers were already jostling one another.
Isaura smiled broadly, her eyes flashing reproach toward the crowd. ‘Bet you thought I’d never make it.’
As the barge came alongside the jetty, she ran forward and threw the mooring lines to Curro. Trying to push the gangplank forward, her face reddened. ‘A little help wouldn’t go astray,’ she grumbled.
Nicanor and Curro, grinning at her exertion, pulled the plank the rest of the way down with ease. Straightening up, she glared at them as she nimbly disembarked.
‘Hey,’ she croaked as first Curro, then Nicanor embraced her in a bear hug. ‘I can’t breathe.’ Nicanor let go, setting her back down.
‘What will your wife think?’ Isaura said with mock indignation.
‘His wife is just as glad to see you,’ said Lucia, who hugged her together with Pio.
‘Even you, Pio? I didn’t think you liked girls.’
Pio stepped back, embarrassed. ‘You don’t count.’ Lucia looked horrified. Isaura laughed, delighted.
Elena rushed forward, embracing her. Isaura stiffened, looking in surprise at an equally startled Lucia. She noticed Curro smiling happily at their encounter. Clueless, Isaura thought as she smiled back and returned Elena’s greeting.
‘I’m so relieved you’re here,’ Elena said, releasing her and stepping back. ‘We all are. We didn’t think you’d make it.’
Isaura’s eyes narrowed briefly.
Curro frowned at the slight, hunched, balding form of Hugo, prone on the deck. ‘Hugo?’ The old man’s chest rose and fell gently, while a quiet snore escaped the corner of his lips.
Isaura’s expression became vacant. She shrugged.
‘What happened?’
‘Later. We have to go—now.’
Curro and Nicanor stared at her.
Isaura whispered, ‘I went up to Mt Majula. I could see the enemy in the distance. They were burning everything as they went. Their army is huge. I’ve never seen anything like it. Their scouts were in the woods. I barely escaped.’ She shuddered before continuing. ‘We need to hurry. You know how they reward their troops.’ Her concerned eyes surveyed the women and children on the shore.
‘Ma,’ Pio asked. ‘Are the soldiers here already?’
‘Hush, Pio,’ Lucia said hastily. It was too late.
‘What?’
‘What did he say?’
‘The enemy are here?’ The crowd began to press forward toward the barge. Isaura and her friends were the only things blocking their way.
‘Let us on.’
‘Get out of our way!’
Curro rapidly unrolled a leather bundle, revealing several swords. Jaime and Daniel grabbed one each, while Isaura bounded on the deck and grabbed her bow. She stood behind them, targeting the crowd.
Isaura let fly an arrow, striking the ground directly in the villagers’ path. ‘Stop!’ Her voice rang harshly across the crowd. She grinned wickedly while targeting them. ‘Don’t think I won’t shoot again. Look at what I did to my own father. Why would any of you fare any better?’
The crowd halted.
Lucia impulsively grabbed the remaining dagger and sword and stood next to her husband. Her chest felt tight, she wasn’t sure what she was doing.
Nicanor had never seen such a fierce look in her eyes. She was struggling to hold the tip of the sword up. Softly he said, ‘Lucia, give me the sword.’ Fixated on the crowd, she didn’t hear him. ‘Lucia?’ Her eyes darted to him, the only sign that she’d heard him. He reached over. ‘I’m going to take the sword.’ Brusquely, she nodded, yet he struggled to remove her vice like grip from its hilt.
‘Don’t let them hurt Pio!’ she said vehemently as she waved the dagger at the crowd. Some of the villagers shrunk back in shame.
Nicanor addressed them. ‘We mustn’t panic. If we work together, we’ll finish quickly and be gone. If you panic, people will die. Just stay calm, we will all leave as planned. Let’s load this boat—calmly. Curro, you and the others keep the peace.’
Isaura climbed onto the cabin roof, using the vantage point to continue her watch. She hadn’t had this much fun since she was a child.
Disgruntled murmurs rippled through the crowd. Curro delegated men to load the boat. ‘The rest of you—wait.’
Isaura kept a wary eye on their movements. Two men lowered their goods to others below in the hold. A surreptitious look passed between them. One of them lunged at Jaime, knocking him to the deck. Instinctively Isaura targeted the man’s back, only altering her aim at the last second. Her arrow flew through the air. Its dull thunk was followed by an agonised roar. The second man froze as his friend rolled in pain, grasping at his thigh.
Jaime leapt up, waving his sword. ‘Don’t move!’ He was stunned at the ease and precision with which Isaura responded.
The injured man stared in shock at Isaura.
‘I warned you,’ she said, keeping her own surprise hidden. ‘Get on with it,’ her voice rang out. ‘Never forget I’m watching. Now move it!’
Curro and Nicanor looked askance at each other, brows raised.
Isaura remained at her post until the loading was finished. Amazing how fast they can move with the right motivation. Bitterness welled inside her. The Zaragarians would be proud of me. She jumped down to the deck as the villagers poured onto the barge.
A woman pushed past them and ran to the still moaning man. She helped him half upright, glaring balefully at Isaura as she did so. ‘How could you?’
‘Clan bitch!’ The man spat at her.
Isaura felt a knot form in her belly. Before she could respond, an arrow hit him square in the chest. ‘Zaragarians!’ she yelled. ‘Take cover!’
The woman screamed as he fell sideways. Isaura shoved her flat. ‘You killed him!’ she accused, slapping and scratching Isaura.
Isaura pressed the bow grip against her throat, pinning her down. An arrow thudded into the cabin wall behind them. The woman’s eyes widened in understanding. ‘Not me. You want to live? Shut up and stay down!’
‘Move!’ Nicanor shouted. He and Curro stood on the bank with their swords raised. A woman fell from the gangplank with an arrow in her back. The last of the passengers ran pell-mell onboard. More fell into the water as arrows struck them.
Laughing, three scouts stepped into view from the tree line. ‘Dumb bastards.’
Isaura sprang up. Heedless, she took aim at the nearest scout. With a savage look she felled him. ‘Who’re the dumb bastards now?’ she yelled at them, before loosing another arrow.
‘That bloody girl!’ a scout yelled.
Got your attention, Isaura thought. Just keep them busy, girl.
Curro and Nicanor shared a knowing look as Nicanor released the mooring line. They heaved with all their might against the hull of the barge. The gangplank dropped into the river. Elena screamed.
‘Jump!’ Isaura shouted. Nicanor and Curro plunged into the water. Frantically, she let fly another arrow, hitting one scout in the shoulder. Two down.
Everyone was sheltering behind the crates and possessions on deck. Isaura’s side of the deck was now clear. The archer was targeting just her. She ran. An arrow flew behind her, whisking her hair on its way past.
‘Get the damned sail up!’ she hollered. The barge was slowly drifting out into the current. Knowing the archer would find his mark soon, Isaura dropped to her belly. An arrow flew overhead. She peered through the railing. Where’s Nic and Curro? Another arrow hit the rail next to her head. She scrambled behind a crate.
‘Throw us a rope!’ Nicanor’s voice drifted up the side of the hull.
‘Nic?’ Jaime and Daniel crawled to the far rail and peered down.
‘Quick,’ Daniel said. They dropped the rope’s end over the side of the barge.
Another arrow flew over Isaura’s head. Bastard!
Nicanor’s head appeared at the edge of the deck. His eyes met hers. ‘Isa, no!’
She stood up, aiming at where she thought the archer might be. She fired rapidly. She missed. Damn. Her next arrow merely nicked the scout.
Nicanor hauled himself flat over the railing. Curro’s head appeared at the deck’s edge. Elena stood up to run to him. Terrified she would be killed, he flashed a pleading look to Isaura.
‘Shit.’ Isaura sprang forward and tackled Elena to the ground. Her bow skittered out of reach. ‘Stay down!’
‘Let me go!’
‘You’ll get yourself killed. Stay down.’
Curro scrambled over the rail to the safety of the deck.
Elena glared at Isaura as she released her. ‘Always between us.’
Isaura shook her head in disgust. She heard an arrow embed itself in the deck. Then another in the hull. She looked up. The sail was finally catching the wind. The sobbing of children filtered through the air. She looked back down at the families huddled around her. The barge was beginning to drift around the bend away from the village pier. No one was at the tiller. They needed to get into the main current—to the middle of the river. She peeked over the crate. Steeling herself, she ran hunched to the tiller and steered the boat further out. With each breath she waited for an arrow to strike her. None came.
Isaura straightened. ‘You can come out now,’ she said wearily.
Hesitantly, people emerged from their hiding places. Dazed, they stared at the arrows sticking out of the deck.
Nicanor strode over and embraced her. ‘Isa, thank you. You saved us.’ She nodded stiffly, saying nothing. He took the tiller from her.
Strangely lethargic, Isaura asked, ‘How many did we lose?’
‘Three boarding. On deck, I don’t know.’
She moved off, surveying the deck and checking a nearby body. Absently, she murmured, ‘Three more, including the one I shot and his wife.’
Jaime walked to her side. ‘I can’t believe you could do that.’
‘You’d rather I hadn’t?’
‘Er, no. I just … I’m grateful, but …’
‘You’re welcome,’ she replied sardonically. ‘Help me retrieve these arrows.’
‘What?’ Jaime asked.
‘I want my arrows back and I want any others stuck in the deck.’
‘From the bodies?’ His eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.
‘Yes.’ Observing his discomfort, she said, ‘I’ll get those. You get the ones out of the deck.’ Shocked, he nodded gratefully.
Isaura tugged on the arrows. Stuck. She drew her knife and sliced down beside the arrow to free its head. Placing her foot against the body, she worked the arrows back and forth until she could pull them free, wincing at the slight sucking noise as they pulled clear. Casually, Isaura cleaned the tips on the clothes of the dead. She finished with the next body. Jaime hurried to her, handing her the arrows he’d collected. She put them in her quiver. It was then that Isaura realised that every eye on board seemed to be directed at her. She raised her chin proudly and refused to look away.
‘This is only the beginning. I don’t have an endless supply of arrows. We may need every one we can get before this is over.’
Grimly, she stowed her bow and quiver in the cabin. Immediately she missed the feel of the smooth wood in her hand. She stared at her medical satchel. She’d never wanted to be a healer, but her fierce desire to pitch the satchel overboard stunned her. I didn’t even think to ask if anyone needed my help. How quickly I’ve broken the mould.
