by L.K. Hill
***
Taras gathered a dozen men. Six were injured, two badly, and the others seemed little better than frightened children. New recruits who'd never seen battle. Now they were tired, scared, and worried for their families.
Taras supposed it must be harder for them than for him to see the city in flames. This was not his city. These men grew up here. It was their home.
His men were charged with guarding the front gates of the small palace at Sparrow Hills. Several miles from Moscow, it sat on a raised knoll with an unobstructed view of the great city. The tsar and tsarina watched the flames from the ridge for two days. They prayed and wept for their burning city.
Taras understand the tsar to be a pious man. He sat in prayer for hours every morning and attended long services throughout the day. On Sundays, Ivan could be seen to lower his brow to the floor and often cry out in spiritual ecstasy. He regarded his role as God’s mouthpiece on earth as sacred. Since the fire, the tsar had been heard wondering aloud why the Almighty sent the flames upon Moscow. Taras supposed Ivan had no answer.
The time had come to change the watch. Taras only worked half of his men at once. When the tsar decided to leave the palace on the hill, he would need all of them. For now, Taras let them get what sleep they could.
Taras walked the length of the gate, speaking briefly with each soldier, trying to keep their spirits up. Coming to the end, his eyes fell on the youngest soldier of those he’d brought with him. The man—barely a man—had brown hair and stood taller and leaner than Taras.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“A-Artem, sir.” The young man’s fingers drummed nervously on the pommel of his sword.
“How are you doing, Artem?”
“All right, I guess, sir.”
“How . . . is your family?” Taras didn’t know a polite or easy way to ask if a man lost family members to the flames.
Artem smiled briefly. “Alive, for the most part, sir. My old granny—my father’s mother— didn’t make it out. She'd been sick for a long time. I don’t think anyone expected her to be around much longer.” He studied his boots. “I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but I’m glad it was her and no one else.”
Taras shook his head. “Not horrible at all, Artem. I understand.”
“And your family, sir?”
“I have no family anymore, and I’m sorry for all those who’ve lost theirs.” He smiled at the young soldier. “You’re doing well, Artem. Keep your head up. And don’t worry. Your replacement will be here soon. It’s nearly your turn to sleep.”
Artem grinned and Taras walked back the other way. The six replacement soldiers were heading toward him from around the side of the palace. The exchange was made a few minutes later, and the six soldiers who’d been on duty—including Artem—headed for the barracks to get some sleep.
“Sir?”
Taras turned. The soldier who’d taken Artem’s place at the end of the line pointed toward Moscow. The soldiers heading toward the barracks heard his call and turned back.
Taras walked over to stand beside the soldier. A seasoned officer, his leg was badly burned and he could not walk well. Following the man’s finger, Taras swept his gaze toward Moscow.
What looked from a distance like a swarm of ants was a mob of surviving Muscovites heading toward them. The mob had already crossed nearly half the distance between Moscow and Sparrow Hills. They would arrive within the hour.
“Soldiers. Come back.” He motioned to the six who had been leaving. “Take up your posts here. Except you.” He pointed to Artem. “Take a message to Commander Ergorov. Tell him I request his immediate presence.” Artem nodded and ran toward the palace. Ergorov led the tsar’s guard at Sparrow Hills and had the final say when it came to the tsar’s safety.
Ten minutes later, Artem and Ergorov jogged toward Taras. Ergorov was nearly bald. His nose sat crookedly on his face, and a jagged scar interrupted his grizzled beard. He held a spyglass in his hands, but wouldn’t need it. The mob could be seen well enough without it, and continued to advance rapidly.
Ergorov looked at the mob, then back at the palace, sizing up the situation.
“Your orders, sir?” Taras asked.
“Defend the tsar at all costs. Keep your men where they are. They’ll be the first defense. My men—” He moved back toward the palace.
“Excuse me, sir. Do you know what they want?”
Ergorov turned back to Taras. “What they want? How would I know what they want?”
“Well,” Taras wracked his brain for what could cause a mob to form so quickly, “has something happened in Moscow?”
“Yes. It burned down.”
“I meant other than that, sir.”
“Not that we know of.”
“With respect, sir, shouldn’t we find out?”
“Why would we want to do that?”
“Perhaps if we know what they want, we can keep it from coming to violence. Forgive me, sir, but haven’t enough people died in the past few days?”
The commander searched Taras’s face. “Do you want to ride out there, son?”
Taras nodded. “I’m willing to do it.”
“That mob could tear you apart.”
Taras nodded again. “Perhaps, but I don’t think they are coming up here looking for me. I don’t propose to stop them. Simply to learn their intentions.”
The commander shrugged. “It’s your life, son. For now. Ride out and see if you can beat them back.”