Page 1 of Savage Warrior

PROLOGUE

Lida, Belarus

May 2022

It had been raining for days. Weeks, even. Arina idly tracked the glistening raindrops streaming down the bus window. It was a game she liked to play, betting with herself on which droplet would reach the bottom first. In the past, when she was tiny, she’d award herself a prize if she guessed right. Chocolate, perhaps. Or, if Papa had had work that week, maybe a toy or a visit to the cinema. No one else ever knew about the raindrops, it was her own secret game which meant she had no need to share her prize with her younger siblings.

Except, of course, she would. Not having to and not sharing at all were two different things. “Sharing’s caring,” Papa would say. “Let the little ones have some.”

Since Mama had died five years ago, it had been Arina’s task to do the sharing in the Kovalyov household. At mealtimes, or when there were new clothes or toys, she would make sure no one was left out. Papa was always so grateful, so glad she was there to help him. How would he ever manage without his princess? Arina kept the house clean, her younger siblings fed and looking respectable. Barely out of school herself, she always checked to be sure the others were turned out well every morning, a warm breakfast inside them, and good, waterproof shoes on their feet.

They weren’t wealthy, not by any stretch of the imagination, but they had enough, more or less. Most of the time Papa worked in a factory making detergents. He always came home grimy and dog-tired, usually coughing from breathing in chemicals, but with wages in his pocket. They got by, and they were happy.

There were times he couldn’t work, when his cough was so bad he couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. Then, he didn’t get paid. Those weeks were hard. Arina struggled to put meals on the table, and she’d been known to keep Yuryl off school because she couldn’t afford the bus fare and his six-year-old legs couldn’t manage the two-and-a-half-mile trek. At fourteen, Natalija was old enough to walk, and Arina never let her miss school.

Yuryl had been at home for almost a fortnight now. Papa’s cough got so bad Arina had to call for an ambulance. She’d thought he was going to die, choke to death in his bed, but the men came and scooped him up. They whisked him off to the hospital, leaving eighteen-year-old Arina to cope as best she could.

So that’s what she was doing, scraping by on their meagre savings and the forty rubles a day she earned working in a draper’s sewing room. The pay was miserly, but she enjoyed the job. She loved the bright fabrics, the textures, the colours, and the sense of accomplishment when she fashioned a lifeless, nondescript piece of serviceable cotton into a flowing, flattering garment. Her favourite task was to assist at a fitting when the customer tried on the clothes and Arina saw her work come to life. One day, she promised herself, as yet another raindrop contest played out on the window, one day she would have her own sewing room. Girls would work for her, on her machines, sewing the clothes she designed. Wealthy customers would queue up to purchase her creations. Maybe she’d even be famous, have her name in glossy magazines, and live in a fine apartment with a balcony and a haughty French bulldog.

Her musings were interrupted by the need to sprint to the front and get off the bus. She’d been so carried away she’d almost missed her stop. On the pavement, she battled with her umbrella with two bent spokes. It had been Mama’s, she would not throw it away. The battered umbrella over her head, she darted through the downpour and along the wet street, avoiding most of the puddles. Her shoes had holes in and would take forever to dry in their unheated flat. She rushed through the main entrance of the Bol’Nica Central’Naja Raionnaja, the main hospital serving the people of Lida in the northwest of Belarus.

It was not a place she liked very much. In fact, not at all. She’d spent an absolutely miserable week here when she was seven and broke her leg, and she had hoped never to have cause to set foot on the premises again. But she wanted to see her papa, to know for herself that he was getting better and would be home soon. So, she stiffened her spine and made her way to the main stairs.

Where is he? Has he gone home already?

Arina stared at the empty bed, the covers neatly tucked in with precise envelope corners. She gazed about her, surveying the other beds as though her papa might have inadvertently slipped under the wrong blanket.

“Can I help you?” A stern-faced nurse wielding a clipboard appeared before her. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“I was looking for my papa. He has a cough…”

“Name?” the nurse demanded, examining her clipboard.

“Arina,” she replied.

“The patient’s name,” the nurse snapped.

“Eryk. Eryk Kovalyov. He was there, in that bed.” She pointed to the place she had last seen her papa, almost a week before when he was first admitted. “He must have been moved…”

A flicker of something which might have passed for compassion darted briefly across the austere features. “Oh. I’ll have to get someone…”

“If you can just tell me where—”

“Wait there.” The nurse spun on her heel to disappear down the ward with a sharp rapping of heels on the wooden floor.

Arina retreated to a pair of plastic seats arranged by the door and perched on the edge of one of them. Back ramrod straight, her fingers clutching the strap of the small satchel she’d brought with her containing her father’s newspaper, slippers, and a small bag of plums, Arina waited.

Thirty-five minutes later, she’d pretty much decided to abandon the wait and resume her search herself. Only the prospect of once more incurring the wrath of that grim nurse had pinned her in her seat, but enough was enough. She’d started to rise when the nurse suddenly returned, a dishevelled man of middling years in tow. The stethoscope dangling round his neck, together with the harassed expression of one whose life is an endless round of tragedy, bureaucratic inefficiency, and bone-deep exhaustion marked him as a doctor. He seemed to be the one in charge, so Arina brightened. Now, at least, she would be able to find out where Papa was.

“Miss…?” he began. For all his apparent authority, he appeared reluctant to meet her gaze.

“I am Arina Kovalyov. I am here to visit my father, Eryk Kovalyov.” Arina firmed her tone. “Could you tell me where he is, please?”

The doctor shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “Well, you see, it seems that… er, well…”

A boulder seemed to take up residence in the pit of Arina’s stomach. “Please, just tell me which ward he has been moved to. Has he become worse? You were supposed to care for him, give him medicine…”

The doctor shook his head. “I am sorry, miss…” His doleful expression spoke far more eloquently than his stammering words.

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