by K L Conger
“You there, soldier.”
Taras touched his right fist to his chest. “Yes, sir.”
Kurbsky glanced behind Taras, searching for others. “Have you none of your men with you?”
“No, sir. Just looking for them.”
Kurbsky nodded. “Well find them. I have a job for you. Report to Sparrow Hills within the hour.”
“Sparrow Hills, sir?”
“Yes. No doubt the tsar wishes to visit the churches—those still standing—to pray and see the damage for himself. There are simply not enough men guarding him for that. Too many of his bodyguard had to fight the flames. Round up as many men as you can up there to help guard the tsar.”
“Yes, sir.”
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 understood 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.”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Taras spurred his borrowed horse hard toward the gates of Sparrow Hills. He’d gotten the attention of a man on the fringes of the mob, who gruffly and succinctly explained the situation. Taras did not know how this could resolve itself. Even if it did, the resolution would be ugly.
His men opened the gate as he rode in. Ergorov waited for him, feet planted far apart and arms crossed over his chest.
“Well?”
Taras dismounted.
“There is a rumor in the city that the Glinskys are responsible for the fire, sir.”
“What? Why?”
“The people believe the tsar’s grandmother is a witch and sprinkled magical water around, which created the flames.”
“First the serdechniki, now this. Why are they coming here?”
“They believe Prince Mikhail Glinsky and Princess Anna Glinskaya have taken refuge here under the tsar’s protection. They are clamoring for the blood of the entire family. They already dragged Prince Yury Glinsky from a cathedral and put him to death in the streets.”
“What? Prince Yury is dead?”
“Yes, sir. The mob thinks they did right. They think he was justly punished for the crimes of his family. Now they want the other two.”
Ergorov cursed. “The Glinskys aren’t here. They are staying in an estate miles from Moscow.”
“Yes, sir,” Taras handed his horse’s reins to a groom, “but we must find some way to convince them of that.”
Ergorov heaved a breath. “Take your post, soldier. I must speak with the tsar.”
“Yes, sir.”
ALL TOO SOON THE MOB approached the gates. They carried clubs, pitchforks, knives, and other weapons. Some carried torches, though why anyone would want to handle fire after the last few days was beyond Taras. Sum
mer had arrived, so they didn't need heat. Hours remained until sunset, so they didn't need light. Their purposes were much more sinister.
Taras stood in front of rows of soldiers lined up behind the palace gate. Ergorov’s men had joined him, bringing his count to fifty soldiers, all armed with swords or lances, that the mob would have to push through to get in.
When the first of the throng appeared, marching aggressively up the hill, the men around Taras stirred. Tension filled the air so thickly, it almost crackled.
“Easy, now,” Taras crooned, “hold your positions.”
Heart pounding, Taras made a rough count of the rabble. Easily three hundred people made up the horde—men, women, and even some children, though they would have simply following their parents.
The mob slowed, came to a stop three feet from the gate. Taras glared at them through the bars. The multitude studied him, his soldiers, the gates, the weapons Taras and his men held. He could see the mob sizing up the situation and realizing it would be harder to get into the palace than it had been to get into the cathedral.
After several tense minutes of glaring, a man stepped forward. Dirty and haggard, clothes torn and covered in soot, he had the wild-eyed look of a man who has not slept or eaten in days. His full, unkempt beard was coal-black.
Approaching the gate, he wrapped long, slender fingers around the bars and looked straight at Taras. He understood Taras was in charge, just as Taras knew he was the ringleader of the mob.
“We demand an audience with the tsar.” His voice came out raspy, but clear and strong nonetheless.
“The tsar is at prayer.” The strong, level tone of Taras's own voice surprised him.
The man smiled, revealing a full set of black and yellow teeth. “Then we won’t disturb him. Send out the Master of the Horse, Prince Mikhail Glinsky, and his mother, Princess Anna Glinskaya, and we will be on our way.”
“The Glinskys are not here.” Taras made sure his voice sounded strong and menacing. If they detected any uncertainty, it would be impossible to turn them back.
“I don’t believe you,” the man hissed.
Taras contemplated how to reply. He had to stay calm. Arguing or yelling would only inflame them.
“Good sir, what are you called?”
The man eyed him suspiciously. “Boris.”
“Boris, if the Glinskys are responsible for the fire—”
“They are!”
Taras put his hands up to show he hadn’t meant any offense. He nearly used another ‘if’ statement, but caught himself. He took a deep breath to cover it.
“Why would the tsar hide anyone who burned down his home and killed so many of his precious subjects?” The man called Boris looked uncertain for the first time. “The tsar has been on his knees in prayer all night. He prays for you,” he swept his gaze over the mob, “for all of you. He is asking God why this happened. Believe me, if he finds that this was done intentionally, he will make certain justice prevails upon those responsible.”
The mob exchanged doubtful glances. Boris looked at the crowd, then at Taras again, his eyes weighing.
“What do you know foreigner? English pig! You will not convince us to leave,” Boris shouted loud enough for the entire mob to hear, “until we have retribution!” The rest of the crowd took up Boris’s cry, screaming and gnashing their teeth.
“Retribution! Retribution!”
Taras did not speak again. Words would not convince these people to back down.
Some of the mob pushed the iron gates in and out over and over, trying to get them open. Others climbed toward the top. Taras upended his lance and used the butt to jab one of the climbers in the ribs. The man stood tall and terribly thin, and Taras felt bone crack. The man cried out and fell from the gate.
“Soldiers at the ready.” He yelled to be heard over the war cries of the mob. His men jumped into action, hefting spears and loading harquebuses.
“Hold.” Ergorov’s deep voice resonated from somewhere behind him. The general appeared beside Taras. He was relieved Ergorov had come to take charge.
“Good people.” Ergorov held up his hands, trying to get the mob’s attention. They were already in a frenzy, climbing the stone walls to get their way. If they got inside the gates, there would be brutal violence. It wouldn’t matter if they found the Glinskys or not, they would simply kill anyone and anything in their way.
Ergorov and Taras exchanged meaningful looks. Ergorov turned his back to the mob.
“Soldiers, the tsar has given the order to fire into the crowd. For the tsar’s safety, we must disperse them. Harquebusiers, load.” Those not carrying firearms melted backward, letting those with guns to the front. They slid into formation, a line of them kneeling, with others at their shoulders.
Taras swallowed. It felt like years before Ergorov opened his mouth again. It wasn’t long enough.
“Fire!”
Twenty-four guns fired in unison. Taras felt like someone had wrapped a scarf around his ears. They rang with the report of the guns, making everything else sound softer. Each gunman hit a different mark and the entire front line of the mob went down, like a clothesline severed from its hooks. People screamed and ran in all directions. The corpses were slammed brutally against the gates as those behind them fought to get away.
“Reload. Fire.” The second volley took down as many people again. Though the mob screamed and clawed to get away, no one moved much. They tried to run, but the frenzy prevented it.
“Open the gate.” Ergorov looked at Taras.
“My lord?”
“Open the gate.” Ergorov’s chest heaved, and his tone brooked no questions. Taras and several of his men swung the iron gates inward. Ergorov stepped out and Taras followed him. The crowd pressed so hard in the opposite direction, chances of being trampled were nonexistent. Ergorov was his commanding officer, and Taras determined to remain by his side.
Ergorov stepped out into the chaos, marching over corpses as though he didn’t see them. He came to a man younger than Taras by a few years. Ergorov grabbed the man by the hair. Without hesitation, he wrenched the man’s head back and dragged his knife across the man’s neck. Blood pulsed out in massive spurts. The light left the man's eyes. Ergorov threw him roughly to the ground.
Those directly around the young man screamed. Many fell on their faces, begging for mercy.
“You will disperse!” Ergorov’s voice boomed over the crowd and carried an authority that vibrated in Taras’s veins. The crowd silenced for him, except for soft weeping and the moans of the injured.
“You. Will. Disperse. Or suffer the same fate as these, your companions.” He swept his arm out to include all the corpses.
One brave man on Taras’s left piped up. “We want justice. We want the Glinskys.”
“The Glinskys are not here. If they were, the tsar would not give them to you. Your brutality will not dictate the tsar’s actions. He is the ruler. He is the law. And, understand me well, to doubt the tsar is to doubt God himself.”
Ergorov got more worked up as he went.
“How dare you doubt the tsar will give you justice? The tsar is the father of all his people. To doubt him is high treason!” Ergorov snatched a harquebus from the nearest soldier and shot the man through the chest.
A few gave surprised yelps, but not many. Most crawled backward, keeping their foreheads pressed to the ground in front of them. They were no longer a mob, only a dying multitude of lonely, desperate people, melting into the smoke of Moscow.
Ergorov turned to hand the harquebus back to its owner, his back to the remnants of the mob. Taras saw it out of the corner of his eye. A man bent over the one Ergorov had shot. The man took a heaving breath, snatched a knife from the ground, and charged Ergorov. Taras didn’t have time to think. The man stood only feet from them. Acting purely on instinct, Taras stepped in front of Ergorov and held his sword, point out, toward the charging man.
The man impaled himself on it.
He ra
n all the way to the hilt. Taras’s fist met the man’s belly. He felt Ergorov spin in surprise. Then the general stood beside him. The impaled man stared at Taras’s chest, his body rigid and trembling. He raised his head. Taras knew those eyes would haunt him forever.
“Where,” the man rasped, “is the tsar’s compassion? He. Was. My. Brother.”
Taras had only a soldier's answer. He whispered it to the stranger, as he would to a boyhood friend.
“Where is your loyalty?”
The man’s breath took a long time to expire. With it went the spark of light in his eyes. Taras had seen death before. It wasn't something a man ever got used to. This felt different. Before, it had always been an enemy, not someone Taras found himself feeling pity for.
The dead man’s weight fell forward, as though trying to touch his forehead to Taras’s. Taras leaned away from the corpse, then pushed the man back, letting his sword fall to a downward angle so the man slid off.
Taras's hands trembled. His sword dripped blood from the tip. It fell in a small puddle near the corpse and soaked into the ground faster than it could accumulate.
Ergorov still stood beside Taras, looking at him with raised eyebrows. His eyes weighed and calculated. Pulling his gaze away, Taras fell into a controlled crouch with the pretense of cleaning his sword on the shirt of the corpse. In truth, he feared his legs would buckle if he continued standing.
The mob had dispersed, leaving only its dead behind. The hill fell silent. A lonely wind blew through the line of Russian soldiers. Not a cold wind, but Taras shivered anyway. Looking over his shoulder, he realized he stood on the line between the corpses and the soldiers. Life on his right, death on his left. He trembled in the middle.
He slowly straightened his legs, wondering what it meant, and why it struck him as odd.
Ergorov instructed his men to dispose of the corpses. He put a hand on Taras’s shoulder. His eyes looked hard, but understanding.
“You and your men continue to guard the gate. I must tell the tsar what happened.”
Taras nodded woodenly, and Ergorov disappeared toward the palace. Taras returned to the gate with his twelve men. He did not give any of them permission to sleep. He did not think any of them would want to now anyway. They gazed at him with awe and respect. He wished they wouldn’t.