Zara the Wolf

by C. R. Daems

  ZARA THE WOLF

  by

  C. R. Daems

  Zara the Wolf

  Copyright © 2015 by C. R. Daems

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from C. R. Daems.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9911060-7-3

  ISBN-10: 0991106075

  Check out all my novels at:

  crdaems.com

  and

  talonnovels.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Ojaza

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Testing

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Raid

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Learning to be civilized

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A New Beginning

  CHAPTER SIX

  CALLE: Duke Wetzel

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Cheyo Monk

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The decision

  CHAPTER NINE

  SALMAN: Earl Pelote

  CHAPTER TEN

  AYUS: Earl Varesko

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CASTRA: Duke Dewan

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JQEDIT: Earl Arriaga

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BUDIA: Earl Purvis

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HIPULA: Duke Brodka

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  TRASSLAT: Abbot of Trasslat

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ULIA: Earl Gallegos

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  KARISO: Duke Phipps

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Expedition to Arucci

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Monis Pass

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Iappo

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Return to Calle

  Map of Aesona

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Ojaza

  I stood pressed against my mother, her arms tight around me as two men in padded grey clothes hacked at my father with swords. He had managed to hurt one with the long-handled scythe he used to harvest grain, but the man's padded clothing prevented the scythe from cutting him open. It had merely knocked him stumbling backward, screaming in rage. Immediately, another man joined the fight. Neither could manage a killing blow because the scythe kept them from approaching too close, but they had managed to score shallow cuts to his arms, sides, and legs. My father's shirt and pants were soaked in blood and hanging open where the swords had sliced through the thin material. I wanted to run and help him, but I couldn’t break loose from my mother's arms around me. I could see my father was tiring and the scythe slowing as it swept from one warrior toward the other. Then one of the men's swords struck my father's scythe and stopped it from reversing, and the other man darted in and his sword sliced through his neck. I screamed as blood sprayed across my mother and me. Tasting his blood on my lips, rage filled me, and I fought with all my strength to break loose from my mother so I could run to him. The fighting appeared to have stopped and men were dragging bodies ... women into the houses. As two men approached us, my mother stumbled backward until the wall of our house stopped her. The men grabbed her arms to try and release me, but her grip tightened. A third man grabbed her by the hair and punched her until she collapsed. A woman, dressed like the men, grabbed hold of me as the men dragged her into the house.

  "Do what we say and you live," she said in a harsh rasping tone as she placed a leather collar around my neck, attached to a long rope. "Come," she said and began walking. Hearing my mother screaming, I ignored her and began running toward the house. Suddenly my head snapped back and my feet flew out from beneath me, and I hit the ground on my back. Spots danced before my eyes, and I gasped, desperately trying to suck in air.

  "You belong to Ojaza. Do what told or—" She yanked on the rope and pain shot through my neck, and I couldn't breathe. I tried to loosen the collar with my fingers but couldn’t. The woman laughed and yanked hard enough to pull me to my feet. Then she did something to the collar, and I could breathe again. "Be good. Hurt less." She laughed and walked toward a snow-white horse. As the rope began to tighten, I staggered forward, my mind numb.

  The next days and nights were lost in pain. I was roped together with six other children, only two from our village, and made to follow the woman's horse. The ground was rocky, and my feet were soon sore and bleeding. As we rose into the mountains the nights were freezing, and we huddled together to keep warm. The woman abandoned three children on our way to her village: one because her foot turned black and she couldn't walk; one who fell on a narrow trail and broke her arm; and one who didn't wake in the morning.

  * * *

  We entered a large village one grey cloudy day just as it began to snow. It was a good thing because I doubt any of us could have been made to go any farther, no matter what she did. Everyone had stopped responding to her shouting or beating—only to the pull of the rope connected to the collar. High in the mountains, the village was spread over two large wooded terraces under the bare face of a massive snow-covered peak. Round huts were everywhere. The three of us were led to one of the huts and given blankets, rough pants, and over-shirts. She stayed while we discarded the rags we were wearing. When she left, I grabbed a blanket, found a vacant corner, and collapsed into sleep.

  I jerked awake to cries of pain and seconds later received a kick to my leg. Dazed and my mind numb, I staggered to my feet, unable to come to grips with what was happening. The same woman stood there shouting and pushing each of us out the open door.

  "Out. Work or no food!" She led six of us into the freezing cold of the morning. It had snowed during the night and a thin layer of snow covered the ground. "You watch, learn." She pointed to the three of us. The other three waved to us and headed for the forest. I followed and helped them collect wood, prepare several fire pits, and fetch water from a small river nourished by runoff from the mountain that flowed along the edge of the village. After we had finished and the people had eaten, we were allowed to eat from what remained. While we were eating, the woman appeared.

  "You." She pointed to me. It took a minute for me to realize she wanted a name.

  "Zara," I said. I had always liked that name and wished my father had named me that rather than Chiba. My old life was over so a new name seemed right, and it was probably going to be the only thing I ever liked again, so why not.

  "Follow Ema. Learn, or bad happen to you." She paired the other two with a similar threat. Ema's chores mostly involved keeping the area clean and helping to prepare the food the hunters brought in daily—they grew no food. Their diet was a simple mixture of meat, roots, and natural berries, herbs, and nuts that grew in the nearby forests. She and I were always busy. If we ran out of something to do, someone would grab us to fetch or carry or whatever they wished. We were the camp slaves, there to make their lives easier. Each night I dropped into bed too exhausted to even talk to the others. As I learned the various tasks asked of us, Ema began to treat me like her personal slave and took pleasure in hitting me when I wasn't fast enough—or just because she could. I had become dead inside and didn't care. They couldn't send me to the fiery afterlife of the damned—I lived there already. So one day when Ema began hitting me, I picked up a tree limb from the fire and whacked her in the head. She spun halfway around and collapsed. As I stood there waiting for whatever they were going to do to me and not caring, the woman who brought us walk up and st
ared down at Ema and then at me.

  "You do her chore now," she said, and then said something in their language to a man sitting nearby. He put away the sword he was fixing, picked up Ema, and carried her off.

  * * *

  The seasons came and went, each day the same—work from dawn until no one wanted you to do anything, which was usually late into the night. Three summers had come and gone. I had learned their language and knew I could speak it well, but kept my few responses cryptic like I had only learned a few words. It proved an advantage, because they felt free to talk when I was near. I slowly learned their customs, religion, likes, dislikes, fears, and joys. They had a spy in their camp—I giggled to myself, the first pleasure I had felt since I arrived. And thus started in earnest what I had been doing by accident. I would move my task close enough to hear or see what was being said or done. Somehow that gave my life meaning, and my numbed mind came back to life.

  The tribe took little notice of their slaves unless they wanted one of them to do something. I discovered there were two other tribes in the mountains. They weren't at war with each other, but they did raid one another occasionally, stealing food, or weapons, or slaves. Usually, it involved the young would-be warriors testing themselves. The Ojaza prayed and made periodic sacrifices to a variety of unseen spirits they pictured with symbols in their limited written language. Warrior was the highest rank, with medicine man next, then those with special skills like weapon making, then everyone else. Slaves were ranked with the camp dogs. Only warriors could take a mate, and slaves were available as mates when they reached a certain age or maturity. Within the warrior-class, tattoos designated their seniority and authority. With my new purpose in life, I made sure I attempted to do every task to the best of my ability. Because I was no trouble, it made me less noticed.

  My latest quest was watching the young warriors being taught to fight. I would sit facing them with whatever task I had been given so that I could watch without it being obvious. Then at night, I would lay awake going over and over the movements I had watched. But I got careless. I had picked up a small twig and was secretly, I thought, mimicking one of the sword moves the warrior was teaching several youths. Before I realized it, the warrior stood in front of me.

  "A slave who would be a warrior," he said in the tribe's language. They had stopped speaking standard to me a couple of summers ago. "Come with me." He motioned for me to stand up, and I followed him back to the group of six young men, who were smiling. The warrior gave me one of the wooden swords and paired me with each of the boys. When the last match finished, I had to be helped back to my hut. I lay there bruised from my thighs to my shoulders, but felt nothing as I retreated into myself, going over each match until I could remember every stroke my opponent and I made. I woke, my mind screaming in pain as skin, muscle, and bone registered the abuse my body had sustained the previous day. I lay there sweating, trembling, and throwing up. It took me several attempts to get up onto my knees and then my feet. I staggered around the fringe of the camp collecting the weeds the warriors used for pain and then began my chores. Somehow I managed to get through the day. For the next five days, it was obvious I was in considerable pain and the source of everyone's amusement. The slave had been taught her place, and in their minds, that was the end of it.

  * * *

  Much to the amusement of the warrior teaching the youths, I looked down each time he looked in my direction. However, I still watched and each night went over the new moves they were learning. When I finally felt recovered, I intentionally picked up a small stick and mimicked the students' new exercise. The warrior smiled and came walking over.

  "The slave too dumb to learn. Time for another lesson. Up!" He turned, and I followed him back to the group where he again paired me in a match with each youth. Again, I could barely make it back to my hut. The other slaves long ago considered me crazy and ignored me. I lay awake mentally excited as I reviewed each match. I had improved. Their reflexes were better because they practiced each day and had learned new moves, but I had deflected many blows that had landed the previous time.

  This ritual continued through the summer and early winter: the warrior would call me over and pair me with each youth; I would go away bruised and in pain; I would recover in a week or two; and then it would start over again. I had learned during my years as a slave that if I didn’t care about living or dying, pain or comfort, my mind became quiet, and it eased the pain. Furthermore, reviewing the training I watched and my matches with that same quiet mind, I learned better than the youths practicing each day. And if I quieted my mind during a fight, I could beat the youths most of the time but intentionally let them win. Winning would have infuriated the warrior and the youths, and the consequences would have been bad. Now, everyone enjoyed the slave being taught a lesson.

  Then one day, the routine changed. The warrior came over after the youths had finished and told me to follow him back to the area. There, an older youth stood waiting.

  "If you can stop warrior Nibi from crippling you, I will consider training you to be a warrior. I am not stupid, Zara. You are better than you pretend, and dangerous. So we must make you a warrior or a crippled slave," he said. I nodded. I had nothing to lose. A healthy slave was no different from a crippled slave. I fought to quiet my mind and to dampen the excitement I felt as I took the wooden sword from the warrior. I knew my biggest fight was now. If I couldn't quiet my mind, I would lose. That would be the only thing I could do to offset Nibi's experience. He wasn't a youth just learning how to use a sword. When I finally turned to face him, he smiled. My eyes sought his chest and my thoughts of winning or losing or life and death ceased to be important. I had nothing to lose.

  I saw his weight shift onto his left leg, and his sword twist preparing to lunge forward with his sword into my stomach. Having anticipated the move, my sword met his, driving it out to my left. I immediately countered with a down stroke to his neck. The fight went on for several minutes. We each scored several times; however, he was wearing padding and I wasn't. So far I had been fortunate that his hits had been glancing blows and in my current state the pain was under control.

  "Stop!" the warrior stopped a late strike to my head from Nibi. "As I suspected, you will not make a good slave. You have warrior blood. We would have to kill you eventually. We will see if we can make an Ojaza of you." He waved for me to follow him and led me to a large dome hut. Outside, an older woman was drilling several young women with swords.

  "Ehwee, this is Zara. She needs training."

  "A slave?"

  "She is no good as a slave, so she must be a warrior or killed."

  "Leave her. She may be good for the young ones to compete against or to amuse them. We will see." Ehwee was right. I was treated like a rabid fox. No one talked to me, and it was obvious from the whispered talk they planned to have fun with me. I didn't care. I had nothing to lose, and I was no longer a slave.

  * * *

  The hardest part of the training was the physical activities. The tribes' women had been active from youth and born in the mountains where the air was thin. They could run for hours, whereas I was panting after only a few minutes. I always finished last—my lungs screaming in pain and too tired to swing the wooden sword. Ehwee took great pleasure in having matches right after we finished running. The young took pleasure in delivering vicious strikes everywhere they could. I endured, although some mornings I could barely stagger to the training area. Young bodies are resilient, and slowly my stamina improved. I found if I quieted my mind while running, I could control the pain. And my sword technique improved as I continued to sit each night with a quiet mind, reviewing every match and every stroke. Although still tired at the end of a long run, with my improving stamina the youths were no match for me with a sword. I gave as good as I got. I could have given better as time passed, but knew that would cause more trouble, maybe even my death. But I didn't fool Ehwee. Three summers later she had me moved to an older group that included men. I
couldn't match their physical stamina, but I managed to finish, even if always last.

  The men's strength was a problem even for the other women. Although I could anticipate their attack, the strength of the blow would push my sword aside and I would receive at least a glancing blow. And while we now wore padding and the swords were lighter than the ones the warriors used, it hurt and left nasty bruises. As I reflected at night on each fight, I could understand what was happening, but that didn't provide a solution. If only I could trap the blade, I mused. The current guard protected the hand but usually just deflected the blade. I managed the pain and ignored the warriors' satisfaction at causing me pain, but I knew in a real fight I would die. So after a summer of thought, I managed to talk the weapons maker into designing a new guard with two hand-width lengths—one pointing downward to protect the hand and one pointing upward to catch and hold the opponent’s blade. The weapons maker did it because the concept interested him—not to please me. When I showed for practice, Chua, our instructor, took my sword and spent some time examining it before returning it to me.

  "It not work." He beckoned to a male student. When he reached us, Chua grinned. "Fight."

  The young man laughed as he lunged with a powerful hack at my waist, knowing my sword couldn't stop it completely. Of course, he was right, but this time it didn't deflect off mine into me but was trapped in my new guard. We traded blows. The force of his attack drove me backward, jolting my arm up to the shoulder, but the edge of his sword never touched me.

  "Stop!" Chua stood staring at me. For the rest of the day, he experimented by having me fight everyone, giving my sword to others, and even trying it himself. When the day ended, he pronounced his decision. "Don't like. Would take learning new way to fight. Maybe good for weak women."

  Of course that last observation meant no woman would use it, as it identified her as weak. He didn’t say I couldn't use it, and I didn't care what he or the others thought of me. They had made no effort to befriend me. Just the opposite, they had gone out of their way to make my life beastly. Zara would always be a slave. I believe they assumed that sometime during the training I would be killed. The training was hard and deaths were common. In the meantime it challenged their youth and provided entertainment.