ZHANNA

775DY

Tudas, 27th of Anovo, Spring

In her home village, Zhanna had been like royalty. The daughter of the village chief, men fought for her hand in marriage. All admired her beauty. The younger girls were jealous of her green eyes, fiery red hair, and expensive silks. Yet now she marched in a column, a slave in tattered rags, covered in so much mud and dirt you might swear her hair was brown. There were 20 of them, taken off to Doros, ‘the City of Sunlight,’ to be sold to their new masters. The war was turning against her homeland. The Kingdom of Rodina had once been the envy of the continent, yet now it too was drowning in the mud, as they did.

The spring rains had come, the plains were like a swamp lacking trees, the road had practically disappeared, and the carts stopped three times an hour to be unstuck by the burlier slaves. Zhanna looked on, her thin lips pressed tightly together, clutching her last treasured possession – an enchanted necklace given by her mother, who had died birthing her sister, Arisha. Zhanna had never quite forgiven her, but now she longed for her sister’s silly faces and shrieking laughter. Where Arisha was, Zhanna did not know. She remembered how her father had pleaded with his killers and how her sister had screamed as she was dragged to the soldier’s camp. A whip cracked, bringing her out of her reverie. A bald, pug-nosed Doran with a permanent scowl shouted at the furred, muscled Cat-man, trying to heave the cart forward, threatening the whip for his back.

Zhanna looked to her left, watching another girl warily. The tall girl tilted her head to the side, her black, shaggy hair flowing wild in the wind.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” She asked in the Rodin tongue, pointing at Zhanna’s closed fist.

“Mind your business,” Zhanna replied, turning and walking onward as the cart began to move again. The girl spoke again.

“Never know, might be worth enough to buy your freedom. Name’s Lana, by the way,” she said, hurrying to walk next to the redhead. Zhanna flashed her green eyes fiercely.

“I don’t care if you’re the Queen of bloody Alamun. I said it plain enough. Maybe I’ll instruct you less figuratively.” She spat. Lana shrugged.

“Come on, let me see it.” She said, reaching for her hand. Before she knew it, Zhanna whirled, tucking her left hand behind her back and staring daggers into the girl’s eyes. Lana spoke again. “Don’t be a bitch. Show me.” She went to grab behind Zhanna’s back, and in an instant, Zhanna’s forehead smashed into the girl’s nose, sending her reeling into a muddy puddle. Zhanna wiped blood from her forehead as the girl staggered, soaked in muddy water, clutching her bloody nose. A man helped her to her feet, and the pug-nosed Doran marched over.

“Stop!” He shouted, bringing the march to a halt. “You. Take off your shirt and lean against that wall.” He pointed to the small, cobbled wall that looked like it might collapse if a raindrop was too forceful. Zhanna gritted her teeth. Do it. Grab the whip, strangle this bastard, she told herself. But all eyes were on her. With their long spears and eyes like snakes, the four soldiers escorting them loomed ahead, waiting for a chance to bloody their weapons. She walked over to the wall and leaned on it. “Shirt off!” The slavedriver shouted. She blew a gust of breath, and lifted her shirt overhead, taking care not to reveal her only possession, still clutched in her fingers.

Her bare breasts were covered with goosebumps, and the icy rain fell. She covered herself with her hands and leaned on one arm. As the man approached with the whip, Zhanna resolved to make no sound and keep her face still as a rock carving.

“5 lashes for violence and disobedience.” He announced before beginning the whipping. Zhanna grunted low in her throat. The whip lashed at her back, leaving new scars and drawing blood. She bit down on her lips from the inside, creasing her nose and eyebrows in defiance of the pain. The lashes were served in the end, but she had not cried out, and the necklace glowed warmly between her fingers.

As she stood, one arm covering her breasts and steadying herself. The column resumed once more. The girl, Lana, was crying and complaining to another slave who deigned to listen. Zhanna thought she might cry too, as her back stung, but she choked back the tears, pulling her shirt back on. The rough spun cloth only made the pain worse. She was bleeding from the inside of her lip, where she had bitten so hard. She began walking as quickly as she could manage in so much pain. The muscular cat-man she had seen pushing the cart walked up next to her and spoke in a low voice with that strange accent.

“It would be best not to provoke the Doran's anger, girl. A few more whippings like that, and they’ll leave you for dead on the side of the road.” He said, peering down at her with his feline eyes.

“Why do you care?” She said, her pride injured.

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“I don’t like to see young girls hurt. It’s a vile act in the eyes of our gods.” He replied.

“I’m nineteen this month, no young girl. I don’t need your gods’ protection.” She said bitterly.

“As you wish, but I shall pray to them, nonetheless. You should also pray to your gods if you wish to end your torment soon.” He said, his tone staying warm.

“The Rodin only have one God. Besides, prayer won’t free us now, only steel.” She said, looking to the crest of a distant hill. She imagined a hundred Rodin soldiers appearing on the hill in shining steel, clutching spears and swords, to bathe the Dorans in their blood. She willed it to happen, but the hill remained empty.

“What’s your name, cat-man?” She turned to look up at him.

“My name is Emirihanar, but my friends call me Emir. We could be friends if you like.” He went into the sewn pocket in his shirt and presented her with five Juneberries, offering them to her. Her eyes lit up, and she took them, hunger possessing her like a demon. She bit into them, red juices flowing through her mouth, and it was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted.

“Yes, I believe we might be friends after all, Emir. My name is Zhanna Koreleva, daughter of Borislav Koreleva, and I won’t remain a slave if the gods help or don’t.” She said, smiling defiantly.

“I’d like to see that Zhanna, very much indeed.” He smiled back, sharp white teeth showing beneath his whiskers. They spent the rest of the day walking together, discussing their homelands and how they ended up here. Zhanna grew to like him quickly.

When night threatened to approach, and the slaves were ordered to set up camp, Zhanna and Emir hammered stakes into the ground for the soldiers. They had become quiet, but Emir broke the silence.

“It’s strange, don’t you think?” He asked, his eyes shining in the darkness. Zhanna looked at him, hammer in hand, kneeling in the grass.

“What is?” She asked. He shook his head.

“The Dorans, they call your people and mine savages. They boast of their culture, their democracy, their freedom, the power of the people, and yet they enslave us.” He said, hammering the stake and leaning back on his hind legs. Zhanna considered his words and found herself nodding. For all their heroic bluster, the true speciality of a Doran was hypocrisy.

Emir spoke again. “The Rodin have no slaves, nor do my tribe, nor do the Kardians or even the swamp men of Mastilia. Yet Doros has half a million. I’ve been to many places, yet none so strange as here.” He spoke. Zhanna raised an eyebrow.

“You seem well-travelled. How old are you exactly?” She asked. Emir smiled, his teeth flashing in the moonlight.

“I’m 34 by the calendar of my tribe, but we count the years in two halves. The half where you wear light silk trousers and run shirtless through the heat is one year, and the half where you wear leather jerkins and shiver at night is another. So, I suppose I am younger than you, in truth.” He said, sounding as wistful as a twinkly-eyed old man. Zhanna guffawed.

“That, I simply can’t accept. You’ve travelled all over, seeing more places than I’ve ever dreamed to set foot in, speaking like a wizened old philosopher, and now you’re telling me I’m your elder?” She laughed, standing up and brushing the dirt from her breeches. Emir stood too.

“It’s the truth, Zhanna. I’m sorry if it embarrasses you. We ‘Catfolk’ as you call us, mature faster. Most of us don’t live past 70, in our years, what you would count as 35.” He said, sounding a little sad.

“So that makes you middle-aged as well. Whatever next? Are you a wizard too?” She said, smiling at him as the soldiers lit a large campfire.

“No, but I have a certain sense for the odd and the interesting. You strike me as both. Most people can’t laugh while in chains, and most do not headbutt a girl for asking to see a necklace.” He said, his eyes seeming to see through her. Zhanna blushed, and the smile fell from her face.

“She should learn to mind her business. Perhaps if she had, she’d have escaped her fate here.” She spoke, now looking at the floor. Emir shook his head, his whiskers twitching.

“It is not for us to shame our brothers and sisters. She didn’t escape. Neither did you. We are all bound together now, and the more we fight amongst ourselves, the happier the Dorans are. The more power they have over us. You must understand this in your heart, Zhanna.” He declared in a deeper tone than before. Her heart sunk in her chest. When Emir spoke like that, he sounded like her father. She wished he was here now, to tell her it would all be okay, to ruffle her hair and call her ‘Princess’. But only in death would they be reunited now. I’m not a princess anymore. She thought, just a stupid girl in dirty rags. If my father saw me like this, it would tear me apart.

She looked back at Emir’s feline features, tears welling in her eyes. She fought them back and clenched her fists. She knew at that moment that she would not die a slave. Emir looked at her for a long time before walking away, beckoning her back to the camp. They ate together, wordlessly, as the stars shone above them.