Citadels of Fire

by L.K. Hill

  ***

  Ten minutes later, Taras strode rapidly through the camp in time with Nikolai. Inga practically ran out ahead of them. Before they reached the sick tents, Taras could hear Yehvah. She wasn’t screaming, exactly, but emitted whimpering, dilapidated, half-hysterical cries intermittently with moans of pain.

  The flaps of the tent were tied open. Taras and Nikolai peered in easily. Yehvah lay on a bed, surrounded by the camp’s three best doctors. It looked like someone had thrown a bucket of bright red blood on her. It covered everything. The flesh of her arms reminded him of raw meat. Thin, deep troughs of blood ran from her cheek, all the way down her neck and further where the wolf mauled her.

  When Inga ran in, the doctors waved her out with annoyance, saying she couldn’t be there. Inga spoke softly to Yehvah, who instantly calmed, making it easier for the doctors to do their work, and there were no more objections to Inga staying.

  Taras stood with Nikolai in the doorway for a quarter hour, watching. Something strange occurred to Taras. These were the best doctors in the camp. In the Kremlin, people of different stations had different doctors, according to wealth and influence. These doctors looked after boyars, the officers among the military, even the tsar. It felt odd to see them at the bedside of a serving woman.

  Pain and fear warred on Nikolai’s face. He must have brought the doctors.

  One of them came forward. Yehvah had fallen into a fitful sleep. Her wounds had been washed and wrapped, but blood still covered her clothes and bed. Inga left Yehvah’s side to listen to what the doctor said.

  “We’ve done all we can do, my lord.” He spoke to Nikolai.

  “What does that mean?”

  The doctor spread his hands. “All we can do is redress the wounds every few hours, my lord, and wait. If she is strong, she may get well. If not . . .”

  Nikolai gazed at Yehvah, worry on his face. “I want one of you by her bedside at all times.”

  “Forgive me, my lord. That is not possible. We have thousands to care for. We cannot sit by one bed—”

  “You can and you will.”

  “My lord, she is only a servant.”

  Nikolai moved so quickly, Taras blinked. Grabbing the doctor by the neck of his robe, Nikolai yanked him upward so his face hovered inches from Nikolai’s.

  “She is no less important than anyone you care for!”

  “M-my lord. P-please. I only meant . . . I have many important people to see and . . .”

  Nikolai’s fingers tightened around the man’s throat. Taras put his hands on Nikolai’s shoulders. He ought to restrain his friend, but thought it would be hypocritical. Wouldn’t he react this way if Inga lay on that bed?

  “Nikolai.” Inga spoke. Nikolai tore his gaze from the doctor to look at her. “I can do it. I can change the bandages. I’ll take care of her. If anything happens, I can send for the doctor. So long as he promises to come when I call, he need not stay.”

  Nikolai glared at the doctor.

  “Of course, m-my lord. I will c-come r-right away. Right away.”

  Nikolai seemed only slightly pacified, but he let the doctor go, pushing him back with more force than necessary. The doctor backed away swiftly. The other two doctors, who watched the exchange with ever widening eyes, gathered up their things to leave.

  Inga put a hand on Nikolai’s arm. “It’s not as bad as it looks. A lot of blood, and we’ll have to guard against infection, but the wounds aren’t deep. If she rests and gets enough to eat, she may be all right.”

  Nikolai dropped his forehead into his hand, unconvinced.

  Taras sighed. “May” was more tenuous than it sounded in these circumstances. The camp was filthy, the weather, frigid. The food was already being rationed. Optimism didn’t go far on the war trail. “Inga,” He asked. “What can we do?”

  Nikolai’s head came up, his eyes asking the same question.

  Inga glanced back to where Yehvah lay. “I have to care for her now. And do all her work. I don’t think she’d want you here.”

  She gave Nikolai a sympathetic smile.

  “Yehvah’s a proud woman and . . . you should both get some sleep. You have a long day ahead of you. I’ll send for you if anything happens. She needs to rest, now.”

  Nikolai nodded and turned toward the door. Leaning in toward Inga, Taras whispered in her ear.

  “You didn’t get much sleep.”

  “I got all I’m going to get tonight. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you need anything, come and get me.” She nodded and gave him a brief smile. He kissed her on the forehead, careful not to rumple her headscarf, and left the tent with Nikolai.

  The two men walked in silence. After a few minutes, it became obvious Nikolai was not heading toward his own tent.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find the wolf.”

  “Didn’t you kill it?”

  Nikolai shook his head. “I stabbed it. It ran off, but I gave it a mortal wound. It can’t have gotten far. I might as well find it, bring it back. We can eat it, if nothing else.”

  Perhaps Nikolai needed confirmation that the thing that attacked Yehvah was dead.

  “Would you like some company?”

  Nikolai arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to get some sleep?”

  “I don’t think I could sleep now.”

  Nikolai looked straight ahead again, completely focused on where his feet led him. “Then I would appreciate it.” He sounded sincere in a heart-breaking way.

  The wolf was huge—easily as big as the one he’d killed in Siberia. A collage of white and gray, its razor-sharp fangs and claws trailing blood on the snow. When they came upon it, it had collapsed from blood loss, but still breathed. It lay under a stand of trees, whose limbs leaned far over, weighed down by the snow, as if to shelter the dying creature. Taras and Nikolai dragged the wolf out into the moonlight. It lay too near death to fight.

  Nikolai cut its throat. He didn’t do it passionately or vengefully, as Taras would have expected, but slowly, sadly, as though he pitied the animal. The wolf’s blood—what remained of it—ran out into the snow in front of it. When its chest grew still, they lifted the deadweight together.

  As they hoisted the carcass onto their shoulders, Taras fancied that the blood had congealed in the shape of a sword—a dull, crimson figure on otherwise glistening, crystal snow.

  The image would haunt him for days.