by K L Conger
His frown deepening under the filthy cowl, he turned and plodded back toward his own apartments, feeling a sudden and desperate need for a hot bath.
Chapter 25
MOSCOW, JUNE 1547
Nikolai answered his door and was relieved to find Yehvah standing in the doorway, though she didn’t look particularly pleased.
He opened the door wider. “Come in, please.”
She peered at him suspiciously, but obeyed. “I cannot stay long, Nikolai. I have work.”
“Yes, yes,” Nikolai waved her toward the fireplace. “It won’t take long. You know about the old woman who died a few days ago?”
Yehvah swallowed before nodding. “Of course.”
For the first time, it occurred to Nikolai that perhaps Yevhah and the old woman had been friends. “Did you know her well?” he asked.
Yehvah shook her head. “No. I never worked closely with her. But the way she died . . .” Yehvah shuddered. After a moment she gave herself a shake and turned toward him. “What about her?”
“I need to find her daughter and thought you might know her name.”
Yehvah’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you want her daughter’s name?”
“I would like to tell her family what’s happened to her. It was quite tragic.” Not entirely true, but Nikolai didn't want to reveal too much of Taras’s investigation.
Yehvah stared at him for a long time until he dropped his gaze. She was the one woman he’d never been able to intimidate.
“That’s decent of you.”
Anger flared at her tone.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he spat. After all these years, the resentment still lingered.
“Not at all, my lord,” she replied, her voice becoming formal rather than soft. She spaced the last two words for emphasis. She furnished the name, then turned to stalk away, but stopped. “Why are you helping the Englishman, Nikolai? You’ve never been one to stick your neck out.”
Nikolai ground his teeth. Amazing, how much the truth still hurt. “Perhaps it’s time I did. I don’t know why, but I feel driven to help him.”
“You know what he suspects, don’t you?”
Nikolai sighed, suddenly tired. “I was truly unaware of any menace surrounding his mother’s death. When he showed up asking questions . . . I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner.”
“This is Russia, Nikolai. Heaven only knows how many people live and die unjustly in Moscovy’s mud. In most cases, no one knows or cares. What do you hope to accomplish by this . . . investigation?”
“Taras knows. He wants to find the truth. I can’t fault him for that. If a man is blessed to have parents such as Nicholas Demidov and his wife, he deserves justice, no matter the cost. Taras’s determination—it’s invigorating. Truly, I haven’t felt this alive in years.”
He didn’t know why he told her that. When he mentioned parents, her eyes took on a sad, empathetic look. It reminded him that she still knew him better than anyone in the Kremlin did. “Why does it matter to you?”
The sadness didn’t leave her eyes.
“It doesn’t.” She turned and walked away. He watched the door shut behind her, wishing he had not let his temper take over.
THE NEXT DAY, TARAS and Nikolai went to find the old woman’s daughter, the only one who could tell them the name of the woman on duty the day Taras’s mother died. When they arrived, the old woman’s daughter had disappeared. The mistress of the kitchens labeled her a runaway and said if she ever came back, she’d be hung. Another cold trail.
Nikolai asked around. He had contacts in both high and low places. If the old woman’s daughter had been murdered, there were people who would know. No one knew anything about the secret disposal of a scullery maid, so Nikolai concluded she must be alive. She'd simply been relocated.
TWO MONTHS LATER, NIKOLAI jogged through the corridors of the Terem Palace. Until a few days ago, neither he nor Taras had come up with any new leads. Then, days ago, a man who owned a filthy tavern in the underbelly of the city contacted him. The kitchen maid, Liliya, who'd been on duty at the palace that day, was alive and Nikolai would be able to talk to her.
Nikolai had been excited to finally give Taras some good news that he’d hardly slept. Then, first thing this morning, another crisis took precedence over their investigation.
The early hour meant that not even the servants were awake yet, but he needed to wake Taras. The soldiers had been summoned, along with every other able bodied man, to fight the crisis.
The palace stirred around Nikolai. When it woke completely, it would be in a rage of chaos and panic. Acrid smoke wafted through open windows. He broke into a full run.
When he reached Taras’s room, his heart racing, he pounded on the door with his fist. Not wanting to wait for Taras’s old manservant to shuffle out of bed—he and Taras were friends, after all; Taras wouldn’t care if Nikolai let himself in—he threw open the door and took three giant steps into the room.
Nikolai had shared enough vodka in Taras’s rooms to know how the furniture was situated. When he entered, he stepped toward the bed. Inga sat up, awakened when he pounded on the door. Her eyes were wide and frightened.
Summer had arrived, and few blankets covered the bed. That wasn’t strange. The strange thing was that she lay on the bed alone. Movement from the corner of Nikolai’s eye caught his attention, and he turned his head. He registered surprise. Taras lay on a bed of animal skins strewn on the floor in front of the cold fireplace.
Taras eyed Nikolai cautiously. He and Inga exchanged meaningful looks. Taras slowly got to his feet.
“Nikolai?”
Nikolai made connections in his head. He thought he understood what was happening, but not why. So, Taras wasn’t bedding her any more than a man would bed his own sister. If their relationship was such, why did Taras specifically ask for her, only to sleep on the floor? Nikolai shook his head. Questions for later.
“You must come quickly, Taras, and wake your men. Fire has broken out in the city.”
“Fire?” Inga asked. Nikolai glanced at her. Her earlier fear had turned to stark terror.
“Moscow is a wooden city and the wind is up. The flames already spread faster than we can contain them. We need every able man we can find.”
Chapter 26
TARAS DRESSED IN A hurry and joined Nikolai, while Inga hurried off to see where Yehvah would need her. Ivan had called in the army to help. None of the boyars would need to fight the fire yet. If it wasn’t put out soon, they might have to.
The army was divided by battalion and sent to anticipate the flames. Taras led his battalion south. They crossed the Moskva River, using the bridge at Serpukhov Road, and made a stand between the tsar’s orchards and gardens.
Reports said the fire began in a cathedral on Arbat Street. That was a busy district, full of people at market by now. By the time Taras reached his position, the fire had burned for more than an hour. Already, miles of land were charred. The wind blew with startling ferocity. When Taras gazed west, he could see tongues of flames leaping over the Kremlin Wall. From within, flames sprung up so high, Taras could see them above the wall, and the wind urged them on.
Taras set his men to digging trenches and filling them with water, hoping to save the vegetable gardens. The flames came too quickly. Every time they poured a bucket of water onto the ground, it dried up in seconds, sucked into the parched earth. The fertile soil became desiccated sand in a matter of minutes.
Thick, pungent smoke filled the air. Taras’s breath grated in the back of his throat. Tearing a strip of material from his coat, he leaned down from Jasper, who stood knee-deep in the Moskva River, and soaked the cloth. Then he wrapped the wet material around his nose and mouth, tying it at the back of his neck. Several of his men followed suit. Seconds later, they were forced to retreat or become fuel for the flames.
They fell back to the orchards, still hoping to save them. Taras dismounted and worked side by side with his men, tryin
g to create a moat around the perimeter. He set others to throw water on the trees, hoping it would make them more resistant to the flames.
It didn’t.
The fire marched right up to the orchard and jumped the moat.
“Everyone out of the orchard!” he shouted, trying desperately to keep his voice confident and authoritative.
They ran. The first leaf caught fire. Within seconds, the entire tree—trunk, branches, leaves, and fruit—were ablaze. The trunk split jaggedly down the center with a strident crack, and the two halves fell asunder, each lying down over several rows of trees. As the last few men dove out of the orchard, Taras watched the fire tumble through the rows of trees faster than a horse could run.
“Nothing more we can do here.” Taras shouted to be heard above the roar of the flames. “The fire can’t go farther east. It will hit the marshlands.”
He peered over his shoulder. Light and shadows played against what little of the inner Kremlin Wall he could see.
“Into the city!” Taras ordered, thinking fast. The men exchanged worried glances. “We must fight the flames from within. People are dying in there. Be smart about it—let the fire have its fuel, as long as the fuel is not living. Stay low, under the smoke. It’s easier to breathe there. We must save Moscow!”
The men stood a little straighter as he spoke. When he finished, they all stood straight-backed and ready to march. He rode at their head until they reached the gate. Then he dismounted.
Jasper would have to fend for himself now. He stood a much greater chance of survival outside the walls. The question was whether Taras would find him again after the fire. Pushing on Jasper’s neck until he moved away, Taras followed his men into the city.
As overpowering as the stench outside the city had been, inside smelled infinitely worse. The smoke pressed against his lungs, suffocating. Beneath the burning wood, something infinitely worse lurked: burned flesh and hair.
A large mound to Taras’s right blazed, sending a pillar of black smoke heavenward. He assumed it to be a stack of hay. The stench coming off it made him gag. Suddenly the stack moved and let out a contorted, agonized whinny. It was a horse, enveloped in spiraling flames.
Wishing he could help, but knowing the animal couldn’t be saved, Taras moved on. Every building blazed, full of people inside screaming for help. Surely the entire city couldn't be like this.
Taras ran to the nearest building. A tiny box made of thin, dry wood—the kind that burned the quickest. The only way out was through the storefront. An angrily burning curtain framed it.
Determined to rescue the people inside, Taras searched for some tool to use. Nothing. No ax, no hammer. He hadn’t even brought his sword with him. What good could a blade do against flames?
He found a rock the size of a medium pumpkin with a jagged protrusion on one side. The rock burned hot, but his thick gloves protected him from the worst of its heat. Going to the side of the structure, he bashed the wall with all his might. Starting at his back knee, he swung his entire body in an arc, throwing all his weight into it. On the seventh blow, he broke through. Air from inside came out in a whoosh, scorching the side of his face. He fell back, covering his eyes. After a moment, he regained his composure and continued digging with the rock until the hole grew large enough to fit a person through.
A woman fell through it, each hand holding onto a small child. She was barely conscious. Her husband came behind her, pushing her through. Grabbing her firmly around the waist, Taras dragged her, along with the two children, away from the flames. The man emerged, patting his beard to put out the embers that nestled there.
“Thank you, sir.” The man fell to his knees when he reached Taras and took his hands. “Thank you for your kindness.” The man sobbed, but his eyes were dry. There was simply too much heat for tears here.
“Don’t thank me yet. Your family isn’t out of danger. The flames are too alive.” Taras hadn’t meant anything in particular by it, but the man latched onto what he’d said.
“Yes. Alive. The serdechniki. They are in the flames.”
“What?”
“The ghouls. They are removing people’s souls, soaking them in water and sprinkling the city with it. That water has magic to set everything it touches to flame. How do you think the flame spread so fast? How do you think it has the power to jump so?” The man motioned upward and Taras looked.
When the flames jumped from structure to structure, they bent themselves into strange, man-like shapes, as though possessed of demons; like the fire indeed lived.
Taras shivered, despite the heat, then shook himself. He had no idea if dark spirits were at work here, but now was not the time for discussion.
Up ahead, the street intersected one of the main roads. People ran past, all heading in the same direction.
“Look,” he pointed, “there. Can you get your family there? Follow the other people. They may be headed toward water or a safe place.”
The man nodded, thanked Taras again, and scooped up his wife. She'd partially regained consciousness. He set her feet firmly on the ground and put an arm around her waist. With his other hand, he took both of his children’s wrists and towed his family toward the wider street. Taras watched until they disappeared into the smoke.
The family's shop had become a fireball. The buildings all around it blazed too. It was too hot to stay here. Putting his eyes on the ground, Taras listened. The roar of the flames came and went like the waves of the ocean. When it hit a low point, Taras heard a woman screaming. He moved toward her voice, weaving in and out of burning structures.
After ten minutes of searching, he found her: a woman around his age, leaning out a second story window above the street. Flames ravaged the building below her. The ground floor roared with fire, leaving the woman besieged. At any moment the floor of the second level would give way, and she would fall into the inferno beneath.
He waved to her as he hurried over. As soon as she saw him, she disappeared. When she reappeared, she held a bundle in her arms. Taras couldn’t see clearly from this distance, but by the way she held it close to her chest, in the crook of her elbow, he guessed it was an infant.
“Please, sir. Catch.”
“Wait!” Taras shouted.
She had already let go, and Taras stood nowhere near the falling object. Vaulting into a run, he crossed the intervening space in slow motion, arms outstretched. He prayed God would save the child. It neared the ground now, and Taras didn't have time to be precise. He prayed he would somehow collide with the small bundle. Long before his eyes caught up with his brain, something solid landed against his fingertips. It bounced, allowing him to fall to his knees and pull it roughly into his arms.
Falling forward, Taras touched his chest to the ground in relief. He pulled back the threadbare, soot covered material. The child peeked up at him with large eyes. He couldn’t tell whether it was a boy or a girl. Its eyes moved about, caught by the color and movement of the dancing flames. It didn’t move. Or cry. He had caught it, yes, but not gently. The child’s neck had not been protected. A worry for another time.
“Sir.” Taras peered upward. The woman stood at the window, holding a child a year or two older than the infant.
“Wait.” He held up his hand. He needed to find somewhere to lay the baby. The only place not engulfed in flames was a spot of bare ground, equidistant from all burning structures. Taras rested his palm on the stone. It was hot. Taking off his coat, he put it down first, then the child on top of it, and returned to the window.
He caught the toddler much more easily. He set the child—a boy—on the ground and pointed to the baby. The boy seemed to understand and waddled precariously to his younger sibling. He plopped onto his backside next to the baby, feet out in front of him, staring at the inferno raging around him.
Taras glanced up again. The woman already dangled another child, five or six years old and obviously a girl, out the window. He held out his arms and caught her. She weighed more tha
n the younger children, and catching her nearly knocked him off his feet. He set her down and looked up yet again.
The woman climbed out now, and he breathed with relief. Beneath her the building groaned. She climbed down and hung by her fingertips, falling a shorter distance than her children. Taras could do little more than break her fall, rather than catching her, and they both ended up in a heap. He tried to help her up. She stayed on her knees, thanking him and kissing his hands.
“Please, no time for that now,” Taras shouted over the roaring flames “We must get your children to safety.”
The oldest child had picked up the baby and held it expertly in the crook of one arm. She grasped the toddler’s hand with the other. The woman ran to her and picked up the toddler. Together they ran toward the main street. Taras jogged behind them.
As they moved away, a loud crash behind them announced the final collapse of the woman’s home. Taras did not look back.
He'd saved two families, but there were dozens he had not. The screams in this part of the city died, drowned by the roar of the flames. Perhaps the fire roared because it was alive with all the souls it had taken. It trapped and cocooned them, the flames enveloping them like a spider with its web, and sucked their life away.
Taras and the little family met a larger group of people, all pushing in the same direction. The woman and her children disappeared into the smoke and the crowd.
“Taras!” a familiar voice cried.
Taras turned to see Nikolai standing ten feet away, covered in soot and blood, as Taras suspected he was. Nikolai’s clothes were torn and dirty. The right shoulder of his shirt had been burned completely off, and the flesh beneath had bubbled and puckered.
The two men grasped elbows when they met. Taras felt relief at seeing Nikolai alive, though he'd not thought about him since the fire started.