by K L Conger
Around them, spaced out every few wagon-lengths, rode the small-statured Tatars on their tiny, colorful ponies. They cracked whips above the prisoners’ heads to keep them moving.
Every time one of them cracked one over Anne’s head, she winced and nearly fell. A few times a day, the tip of a lash caught Anne’s arm or shoulders. The searing pain threatened to consume her. Each time it happened, she clenched her teeth and prayed she didn’t fall. Tears formed in her eyes, and sometimes fell down her cheeks. The tears never got far. The frigid air interfered and they froze part way down.
Even there, she felt lucky. Some of her fellow prisoners received a full lash across the back. Usually because they didn’t move fast enough or showed insubordination to the Tatar soldiers. Anne put her head down and simply kept moving.
One man caught the tip of a lash in the face and lost his eye. He wouldn’t stop screaming and thrashing, so the Tatars simply ran him through.
"Did Devlet-Guirey sack Moscow, do you think?" Alma asked from behind Anne. Anne glanced over her shoulder, wondering if the woman addressed her.
A man walking beside Alma shook his head. Anne didn’t know his name "I heard them talking earlier. He planned on doing so after the fire burnt out. For some reason the Tatars believed General Vorotynsky rode close by with a huge force of soldiers. Rather than stay around to collect his booty, Devlet-Guirey turned tail and ran."
By the way he spoke, he’d been a boyar or wealthy merchant. The Tatars didn’t discriminate by class when taking prisoners.
"Was General Vorotynsky close by?" Alma breathed hopefully.
The man shook his head. "As I understand it, no. He was on his way, but not close. They could've done a good bit of looting before he arrived. So much the better for our countrymen, though. The city still burned, and the enemy left after. If not for the rumor, things would have been worse."
“Good for our countrymen," Alma agreed. “What of us? What will our fate be?"
As if in answer to Alma’s question, a man somewhere up ahead of Anne suddenly called out, “Where are you taking us?”
Anne groaned inwardly. Every time some brave soul ventured to question their captors, violence inevitably followed.
At first, no one paid the man any heed.
“Where are you taking us?” he demanded again.
Anne couldn’t see his face. He walked several rows in front of her. Because she only saw backs and shoulders, she couldn’t even discern which figure the voice came from.
“We deserve to at least know what our fate will be,” the man cried out. “Will we die? Are you going to kill us? Use us for target practice? What?”
A Tatar soldier riding a small white pony covered in brown and black patches up ahead laughed in a way that chilled Anne’s blood. “No death for you, I am afraid,” the Easterner said in broken Russian.
Anne strained to understand him, still concentrating on walking without slipping in the snow.
“It’s to the Theodosian slave market for you.”
A murmur went through the prisoners.
Anne didn’t know where Theodosia sat in the world, though the ‘slave market’ bit was clear enough. “The Turks,” the boyar man behind Anne muttered grimly. “The most beautiful women will be reserved for the Sultan,” the man muttered. “The rest, possibly for one of the prince’s harems.”
“What about the men?” Alma asked the man.
“More than likely, it’ll be manual labor for us,” he answered. “The galleys or the mines.”
He sounded utterly grim at the possibilities, and no wonder. While no woman wanted to become this kind of slave, especially to the enemies of her country, men forced into manual labor rarely lived more than a few years, no matter their age. The work simply proved too difficult and their bodies gave out quickly. The older ones would only last a handful of months.
More than once, Anne considered falling purposely and refusing to rise again. She would die for it. Perhaps the easier choice. She kept telling herself God watched over her and something good would come of this. She didn’t always believe it, but she kept telling herself.
They continued their seemingly ceaseless walk. While the sun hung high in the sky, the air remained frigid on Anne’s skin. Her feet and back ached, and her stomach growled for lack of food. The prisoners received food once a day, when they stopped to make camp at night. A meager meal of stale, crusty wafers that did little to satisfy a growling stomach.
A grunt sounded in Anne’s ear. On its heels, a heavy weight slammed into her back. She fought to keep her balance and twist at the same time to catch Alma and push her back up onto her feet. Yet the line of prisoners around them kept moving, making the task extremely difficult. As Anne twisted around, her eyes fell on a large rock in the snow. Alma must have caught her toe on it.
As Anne half-caught, half-dropped her, Alma cried out in pain.
Anne winced as much for the cry as anything else. The prisoners quickly learned the pains of being singled out. They all did their best not to draw attention to themselves. If one of them stumbled, they’d learned it best to rectify the situation silently, without alerting the Tatars, who might punish them for their misstep.
Anne managed to get both her and Alma back on their feet, hauling the other woman along behind her as the line moved.
To her horror, when she glanced up, the Tatar guard who’d spoken earlier turned his pony around and headed down the line toward them.
“Walk, woman!” she hissed quietly. “And stop making such a fuss. You’re bringing them down on us.”
“I can’t,” Alma groaned through gritted teeth. “Anne, my ankle. It can’t bear my weight.”
“Here,” Anne said softly. “Lean on me. Try not to limp.”
Alma did, but they weren’t convincing. Alma kept grunting in pain while Anne practically dragged her along by the waist. They kept stumbling because, slowly as the line moved, they still couldn’t keep pace because of Alma’s bad ankle.
“Something snapped when I went down, Anne. I’m not sure I can keep going.”
“You can,” Anne whispered firmly. “I’ll help you.”
“What’s this?” the Tatar guard asked firmly. He stood directly beside them, staring at Anne and Alma. The other prisoners around them put their heads down.
“She’s fine,” Anne said quickly.
The Easterner watched them with a critical frown, as though he didn’t understand why their gait looked so uneven compared with the rest of the line. Seconds later, his gaze fell toward their feet, and Anne’s heart sank.
“This woman cannot walk,” he said firmly.
“She can,” Anne insisted. She gritted her teeth, straining to keep them both upright. They did keep up with the line, even if sweat beaded Anne’s brow and a voice at the back of her mind said she didn’t have the strength to keep this up for long.
The Tatar watched them another few seconds before shaking his head. He raised his hand and called for the line to halt. Anne knew what would happen because she’d seen it several times since they’d left the walls of Muscovy.
“Please,” she begged the Tatar. “Please don’t.”
Ignoring her, the Tatar grabbed Alma roughly around the waist and used his dagger to shear through the rope connecting her wrists to the shared line.
“No,” Anne yelled, struggling against her bonds, praying desperately for God’s intervention.
The Tatar dragged Alma backward through the snow. She didn’t cry out or struggle.
“No,” Anne screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t!”
Alma gave Anne a sad, resigned gaze and raised the fingers of one hand, kept down by her waist, in farewell, before the Tatar cut her throat with his dagger.
Blood sprayed the snow as the Tatar flung Alma’s body away from him. It landed in an unblemished bank. Alma would receive no better burial. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Anne went back to focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Periodic sobs or hicc
ups escaped her lips as she went.
“Be calm, woman,” the man who’d spoken of the Turks earlier said. “You’ll be next otherwise.”
Anne merely nodded. Keep walking. Simply keep walking. She refused to believe God had abandoned them. Though, at the moment, she also struggled to believe He hadn’t.
When Anne judged by the angle of the sun that midday had arrived, commotion began out ahead of her. Conversations rippled through the crowd like wind through the grass, though no one directly around Anne understood what caused it.
The line stopped and the same Tatar who’d killed Alma commanded them to sit. Despite the cold of the snow seeping through her thin dress, Anne felt grateful for the respite.
The minutes ticked by, and Anne grew more curious. They’d never stopped for such a long time before, except at night for a few hours of shivering sleep.
The prisoners passed whispers over their shoulders, moving the news down the line.
Apparently, the Tatars came across a Siberian man who spoke Russian yet didn’t look like a Muscovite. The whispers named the stranger a foreigner. They didn’t know where he hailed from.
The people in front whispered that the Tatars didn’t seem to have any qualms with the man. They didn’t try to take him prisoner or harm him in any way. They merely spoke with him, perhaps trying to sell him some slaves. Anne wondered vaguely if being sold to a foreigner in Siberia would prove any better than being taken to this Theodosia place. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than what the Tatars already planned for them. Who knew which path contained the worse fate?
The next whispers said the man refused to buy any of them, claiming he merely passed through the countryside. Anne didn’t care what happened with this Siberian man. She only prayed his business with the Tatars took another hour, so she’d be allowed to sit for a while.
Her prayer, of course, proved vain. Not five minutes after the reports of the man’s refusals, the Tatar guards hustled the prisoners to their feet, cracking their whips in the air multiple times to get the prisoners there faster.
Despite the relief of the respite, Anne found it harder than she’d have thought to stand. Her sore, uncooperative muscles screamed when she forced them to straighten. The skin of her backside, where she’d sat in the snow, felt numb and painful at the same time, which made no sense.
They soon moved forward again. Anne pushed through her creaking body’s protest with a resigned sigh. As she moved, she caught sight of a man on horseback up ahead, moving toward her, in the opposite direction of the Tatars.
This must be the Siberian man. From so far away, she couldn’t make out his features. He sat straighter and taller than the Tatars. His horse stood nearly twice the size of any of theirs.
A faraway thought—by his direction, he looked to be heading toward Moscow—floated on the outskirts of Anne’s mind.
As he drew closer, Anne blinked, peering through the bright sun. No, it couldn’t be. She must be imagining the similarities. She blinked several more times, trying to force the mirage to resolve itself. It didn’t. Instead, it became clearer.
It simply couldn’t be him. Yet, as the rider drew closer, his familiar features became unmistakable. Even the way he sat his horse looked familiar. She’d never noticed it while in Moscow, but she’d seen him ride plenty of times, and he came around Inga often enough for Anne to be familiar with his figure.
Lord Taras.
Did she dare hope he could help her? Or even recognize her?
As he drew closer, she realized he wouldn’t see her on his own. He kept his eyes straight ahead of him, studiously not looking at the line of prisoners. She waited until his horse plodded into the perfect place for her to be directly in his line of sight. Anne glanced warily at the Eastern guards to make sure they didn’t see, and then quickly raised her arm.
The motion must have caught his eye, because Taras’s head turned toward her. His eyes fell on her. She saw no recognition there. Did she dare call out to him? Surely he’d find it strange for a prisoner such as her to know his name. Perhaps it would spur him to stop and investigate?
Of course, if he didn’t, the Tatars might kill her.
The horse plodded right past her, with Taras peering down at her as he passed. She twisted her neck to watch him, her hope of rescue fading.
Taras abruptly twisted in his saddle to stare at her again. His eyes flew open wide and his mouth dropped open.
The line, meanwhile, marched on, dragging Anne along with it.
“Wait!” Taras’s deep voice rang out, echoing across the snow. “Good sirs, please wait. I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to purchase a slave from you after all.”
The line halted again, and Anne held her breath. She wanted to let relief fill her up with it’s warm assurance, but didn’t dare. When it tried to flood in, she squashed it ruthlessly. Things might not go smoothly. Her captors might not be willing to part with her over a less healthy slave. What if they asked for more than he possessed to trade?
Several of the Tatars crossed to Taras. He dismounted and they talked in quiet voices. Anne waited with her head down, counting her heartbeats as they pounded in her ears. A moment later, Taras walked down the line, apparently observing the prisoners. He stopped beside her and she glanced up at him, barely daring to breathe. He pointed an index finger at her. “This one,” he said. “May I examine her before I decide?”
The Tatar guard gave Taras an appraising look. He nodded. “You may,” he said in heavily accented Russian. “But no touching.”
Taras waited for the man to turn away before rolling his eyes. If not for her exhaustion, Anne might have smiled.
The guard cut the rope connecting Anne to the other prisoners and pulled her roughly out of line by her elbow. He made her raise her arms and turn around, so Taras could consider her from all angles.
Taras stepped up close to her, leaning his face toward hers and floating his arms out to the sides so the Easterners saw that he didn’t touch her. He dropped his voice so low, she strained to hear it. “Is it only you?” he whispered. “Any others with you?”
Anne understood he wanted to know if Inga marched in the line of prisoners anywhere. She wished she knew. She attempted to whisper without moving her lips. “I’m the only one from the palace I know of in this group. I can’t vouch for other groups of prisoners.”
Taras nodded and raised his voice so the Tatars heard it plainly. “She will do. What will you take for her?”
The Tatar’s guard’s voice took on a tone of scorn. “Are you certain? This woman is past her prime. She will not move as quickly or work as hard as others. If it’s her feminine charms you are after, there are younger—”
“She’s the one I want,” Taras said firmly. “Will you trade with me or not?”
The Tatar glanced once more between Anne and Taras before shrugging. “We will.”
Taras bartered with the Tatars for the next several minutes, though Anne barely registered their conversation. She still didn’t dare breathe, waiting for something to go wrong. For the Tatars to renege or demand a higher price than Taras could pay.
In the end, he paid what Anne considered a handsome price for her, handing over more coin than she’d have expected him to carry, as well as a bundle of wolf pelts tied to his saddle. From the snatches of conversation she caught, she thought the Tatars tried to get his saddle. Taras refused, offering the pelts instead. Thankfully, they’d accepted.
When the bartering finished, the Tatar shoved Anne toward Taras, who caught her before she fell into the snow. The line of prisoners marched East once more, toward new lives in a new land.
Some glanced at her with envy, others with horror. And still others with speculation.
They couldn’t know she’d met Taras before and knew him to be an honorable man. He wouldn’t treat her roughly, but they didn’t know that. She saw the curiosity in their eyes as they moved away.
When the Easterners and their lines of slaves moved far enough into th
e distance that individuals blurred together, Taras gently turned Anne toward him. “Are you well, my lady?”
Anne opened her mouth dutifully to answer. She found she didn’t know how. Tears bubbled up in her eyes, and she felt her face crumple. Her knees went with it and she collapsed toward the ground.
Taras caught her easily, put her back on her feet and steered her gently toward his horse. From his saddlebags, he produced a blanket made of pelts woven together and draped it around her shoulders.
He motioned to the stirrup and Anne raised her foot to it. The motion exhausted her, though she did manage it. Taras gently lifted her upward and she threw her other leg over the horse’s back.
He stood in the snow beside Jasper, staring at his horse’s flank. She wondered if he felt awkward riding the horse with her. She didn’t know why he would, but why did he merely stand there, motionless?
"There's plenty of room in the saddle, Lord Taras. We can ride together."
He peered up at her. "I'm...trying to decide on a course of action."
Anne found it difficult to summon up the drive to even ask a simple question. “Oh?” she mumbled.
“I traveled toward Moscow. Some exiled boyars told me they’d sent the Tatar army to sack it. Now I find you a prisoner in their ranks. Tell me Anne, does the Kremlin still stand?”
A deep sadness stole over Anne. It had loomed in the back of her mind since they’d dragged her from the church in Moscow. She’d focused on surviving too heavily to truly acknowledge it. Now, as he peered earnestly up at her, his eyes haunted, it threatened to overwhelm her.
“The Kremlin?” She swallowed. “Yes. I believe so, my lord. As we marched out of the city, I saw the domes and spires of the Terem palace in the distance. Moscow has burnt down to almost nothing. Worse than the fire you lived through several years back. The Tatars ravaged the city and took thousands captive.” A tear slid from her eye and froze on her cheek.
Taras nodded, looking worried. “I suspected as much. I came to see if Inga still lived. Do you know if she does?”