by K L Conger
The entire district stood silent, waiting. Not even birds flew overhead. Inga expected scavengers at least, but no. When she reached the border of the city, she fell to her knees in both despair and exhaustion, knowing she needed sleep. She curled up under the eaves of the nearest building and succumbed to her fatigue.
She still lay in the shadow of that wooden structure—a shop of some kind. This part of the city still felt utterly vacant in the pre-dawn light. Ghostly drifts of smoke from the burnt parts of the city wafted through the streets. The flames were said to hold seredichi, demons looking for bodies to inhabit. Inga idly wondered if the smoke held them too.
Inga sized the old woman up while rubbing her shoulder gingerly. Despite a thin frame, skin sagged from the woman’s face and arms. Gray streaked her wiry hair and warts covered her face.
“You are alive, child,” the woman croaked. “I thought I must be seeing things when I noticed you there. You and I are the only living, breathing things in this district.”
Inga struggled to her feet, fighting stiff muscles the entire way. “I heard talk of survivors who came here for refuge,” she said. When she straightened to her full height—head and shoulders above the old woman—every bone in her back and neck cracked. “I searched yesterday and through half the night. Do you know what happened to them? Where they’ve gone? What news have you from the city?”
The old woman twisted her lips as though she’d eaten a sour pickle, her eyes darkening. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, child. The Tatars came through while the fire burnt the southern part of the city. The refugees hiding here were taken north and east. Prisoners of war to the heathens now.”
Inga gaped at the woman. Taken by the Tatars? She’d never even considered the possibility. Could it be? Could Anne and Ekaterina have gone with them? They were either victims of the flames or prisoners to the Tatars. They might have made it back to the palace, but Inga didn’t dare count on it. Even her fool’s hope knew better.
She peered at the old woman. “What are you doing here alone? How did you get here?”
The woman shrugged. “I survived the fire, girl. I search for survivors too, as do many others. I ventured into this part of the city because I grew tired of looking at charred wood.”
Inga’s thoughts raced along with her heart, but she needed more information. The old woman looked harmless enough. “What else is happening? Have the Tatars gone?”
“The bastard Devlet-Guirey ran for it, rather than looting the city. No one understood why. It seems he’s circled back around for one last try at us, though. They say the great general, Vorotynsky clashes with him outside the walls. Don’t you hear their swords, child?”
Inga frowned, straining her ears. The tinny, faraway, clanging noise from her dream still floated upon the air. She’d been too focused on the old woman to register it. Now that she listened, it did sound like the clash of swords from a great distance.
Inga turned toward the sound. The wall of timber surrounding the city blocked her view. Not nearly so large or imposing as the Kremlin wall, this one still stood higher than most of the buildings in this district. She couldn’t hope to scale the relatively smooth, wooden surface, so she turned to the building beside her, tied her skirt up on one side so it wouldn’t billow, and climbed, using windows and uneven boards as hand and foot holds. Once she reached the eves, things became easier, as the uneven shingles made for perfect grips.
In her periphery, the old woman shuffled closer to the building, gazing up at Inga as she ascended. She did not try to follow. Inga doubted the old woman could have made the climb.
Scrambling onto the roof, Inga moved onto a relatively flat section and, rising onto her tip toes, barely managed to peek over the city wall. Outside it, cleared fields stretched for nearly a verst before being overtaken by dense foliage.
The battle did not take place directly outside the walls. Inga hadn’t expected it to, or the din would have been much louder. The deep, green forests surrounding Moscow prevented her from seeing anything clearly, but metal glittered in the morning light, visible through the trees.
Above the level of the surrounding wall, the clanging of swords became infinitely louder. Sprinkled throughout the din, she heard the cries of men, the scream of horses, and the pounding of hooves. Great armies clashed within those trees.
Looking toward the horizon, something else caught Inga’s attention. It looked like a faraway, moving blob. She squinted, peering at it and trying to form a clearer picture of it in her mind. A large group of people, moving away from Moscow. The group didn’t appear to be engaged in battle. Inga wondered if they were prisoners being led away. Perhaps Anne and Ekaterina walked among them.
Inga descended the building swiftly.
“What is it, child?” the old woman asked as Inga hurried down, careful not to slip and fall. “What do you see?”
“Battle.” Inga leapt the last five feet to the ground. “And prisoners being taken north.”
The old woman nodded. “As I said.”
Inga nodded. “Thank you for your help, mum. May God smile upon you and yours.” She turned and hurried away.
“Now wait just a minute,” the old woman increased the speed of her shuffle and hurried after Inga. “Where are you going?”
“To find my family,” Inga said over her shoulder.
The old woman hobbled along faster than Inga would have thought possible.
“I’ve told you, they’re gone,” the woman huffed, out of breath as she tried to keep pace with Inga. “Even if they were here, they’re prisoners now.”
Inga nodded. “I know. I need to go get them.”
Tiny, sharp daggers dug into the skin of Inga’s arm, and a strong force swung her around to face the old woman. Inga glanced down. The woman’s fingernails were the daggers. Not only did she prove spryer than Inga imagined, but stronger as well. Her eyes shot thunderbolts at Inga.
“What do you mean you’re going to get them? A little slip of a girl like you is going to face down the Tatar army? What can you hope to accomplish? Don’t you know what those men will do to a pretty little thing like you?”
Inga yanked her arm from the woman’s grasp. “I have lost much, old woman, because of my refusal to act. I will not lose this too.”
Inga backed away a few steps to make certain the woman didn’t try to grab her again. The woman merely stared at her, expression wary, as though she eyed a dangerous animal. When she’d backed ten paces away, Inga turned and bolted for the city gates. She might not hold the power to control Ivan or Russia or her own destiny to a very great extent, but she would do what she must to protect those she loved. She passed through the city gates and out of the city, running faster when she reached open fields.
The clanging grew louder as Inga left the city walls behind. Her stomach clenched down in fear. She knew how foolish it was to leave the protection of Moscow, such as it was. She simply couldn’t stomach letting Anne and Ekaterina be led away and not trying to help them. She had no idea what she would do when she caught up to the group of prisoners in the distance. She would simply have to improvise.
As she reached the end of the cleared land surrounding Moscow and stepped onto the road with thick foliage lining either side, a great thundering of hooves came from behind her. Horses and soldiers racing up the road toward where she stood. No way to tell if they were friends or enemies. This road made up the main thoroughfare to Moscow, after all. Even Russian soldiers might pose a threat, though not so great a one as Tatars would.
Inga lunged off the road for the cover of the woods. Her toes immediately caught on roots and rocks, while brambles snatched at her dress and branches scratched up her face. Though pushing through the woods proved more difficult than walking along the road, Inga persevered.
The thunder of hooves grew louder, and she only managed to put a few arshins of land between her and the road. Anyone coming to a stop there would simply look over and see her.
Inga spun in a ci
rcle twice before identifying a suitable bush to dive under. When she did, the branches caught on her platok, yanking it off her head and loosing her hair. She snatched the platok from the bush’s fingers and secreted herself beneath the scratchy brush, making certain neither her dress nor her hair stuck out anywhere.
She’d simply wait for these horses to pass, as she didn't know who they were. Holding her breath, she prayed she wouldn’t be captured by Tatars.
Inga happened to look toward the road as the hooves thundered nearer. Three sets of horse legs came into view, separate from the thundering hooves and coming from the opposite direction. Three lone horses. Then three sets of boots hit the ground beside the horses, as their riders dismounted. Three lone horsemen? Standing in the way of the oncoming army of hooves? Strange.
The hooves thundered closer and soon came level with Inga’s hiding place. They slowed and stopped almost directly in Inga’s line of sight. With face turned toward the road, she saw the forest of horse legs clearly. The men wouldn’t see her, though, unless they squatted down, cheek to forest floor, and looked directly under the bush she hid under.
"Hold," a deep voice said in Russian. She felt certain they came from the man atop the lead horse, a huge stallion. She could see the bottom of khaftan-like armor. It reached down over the horse’s legs to deflect arrows that might come its way.
Not Tatars, then. They spoke perfect Russian and rode large horses with heavy protections. The small-statured Tatars were notorious for their swift, miniature ponies. These were the Tsar’s soldiers. Still, Inga wasn’t keen to reveal herself. She hardly belonged in the middle of this conflict.
A single man—pair of boots—jumped off the lead stallion and approached the three lone riders in the road. Inga heard voices but couldn’t make them out from this far away. She wondered who the men were, and what was going on.
VOROTYNSKY GRITTED his teeth, attempting to keep his spine rigid while relaxing the rest of his body. The galloping horse beneath him made it difficult. If he expended all his energy while riding, he would have no energy for battle.
Battle loomed over them as surely as the sun rose in the east.
The thunder of hooves surrounded him on every side, spurring his war horse on. His army galloped at his back, keeping pace with him. Vorotynsky went as fast as he dared over the terrain.
Devlet-Guirey’s retreat proved a ruse. He circled wide and then made a straight line back toward Moscow while Vorotynsky’s men sat on the banks of the Oka, waiting for morning.
A messenger arrived as the last of Vorotynsky’s men crossed the river. The courier had pushed his horse so hard riding to tell Vorotynsky the frightening news about the Tatars, the animal died on the river bank.
Vorotynsky had leapt into his saddle and rode like mad for Moscow with his entire army behind him. He needed to head Devlet-Guirey off before the heathen general reached the city. Mikhail Vorotynsky would not allow the Easterners to resurrect the Golden Horde and take control of Mother Russia. Not if he could help it.
Vorotynsky’s eyes fell on three soldiers up ahead of him, standing in the road. They wore Russian uniforms. Pulling back gently on his horse’s reins, he slowed gradually and came to a stop in front of the three men. His army slowed around him. When they halted, the sudden silence of hooves sounded loud in Vorotynsky’s ears.
He dismounted and the three Russian soldiers simultaneous took a knee, clapping fists to chests. “General,” they murmured as one.
Vorotynksy motioned impatiently for them to rise. “What is your news?” he asked.
The soldier in front—Vorotynsky judged he’d claimed twenty or so winters, with dark hair and a flat nose—spoke. “Perhaps we should speak in private, General.”
Fear seeped into Vorotynsky’s stomach. He nodded, making sure to keep his face tranquil. If the news were good, the soldier would simply have given it.
He dismounted, and the two of them walked far enough up the road to avoid being heard, though they stayed in plain view of the army.
“What is it, man?” Vorotynsky asked, when the soldier stopped and turned to him.
“The army of Devlet-Guirey sits directly over the rise, General.” He nodded in the direction the army had already been headed. “They mean to attack the city within the hour.”
Vorotynsky stared at the soldier, surprise and relief warring in his chest. “We’ve made it in time? He has not attacked the city yet?”
The soldier looked neither happy nor relieved. “They haven’t yet attacked the city, General,” the man said gravely. “But already we cross swords with them in these woods. And the Tatar army is nearly double the size of yours.”
Something in Vorotynsky’s chest went still. “How many?”
“One hundred twenty thousand.”
Vorotynsky nodded grimly. Nearly double indeed. Though he started with much smaller numbers, as he rode through the countryside in pursuit of Devlet-Guirey, at the Tsar’s command, other battalions hitherto stationed along the Oka had joined his force. Even acquiring all of them, his numbers still sat around sixty-five thousand.
“What will you do, General?” the messenger asked.
Vorotynsky gave the man a smile. It probably looked foreboding. He meant it to. After all, these were grave times.
“I will defend Moscow, man. It is the only thing to do.”
He left the worried-looking messenger and walked back to the head of his army. Naturally, not all of them would hear his words, as the line of soldiers reached down the road several versts. Still, those in front could pass his words back.
Vorotynsky raised his hands for silence, though the soldiers made no sound anyway. From the moment he dismounted, every man who could see him followed his movements closely with their eyes.
“My fellow Muscovites,” he called. His voice boomed in the silence of the forest, reaching back farther than most men’s voices would have. “The heathen, Devlet-Guirey, is readying his forces to attack our city. He’s already burnt most of our beloved Moscow down to cinders, and taken many of our citizens as prisoners. We cannot allow him to further profane our sacred city.
“My honor constrains me to honesty. The odds are not in our favor. Be assured the wrath of Almighty God is. For the honor of our ancestors, from the Grand Princes of Kievan Rus, all the way down to our beloved Tsar, who many call Terrible, I ask you to fight beside me.
“Fight with the righteous anger of God. Fight with the energy of despair. Fight for Mother Russia and spill your blood for her cause. Let it seep into her bowels and make your mark on this earth. We ride this moment for our enemies’ throats. Do not shrink or sorrow. Believe that God is on our side.”
The soldiers at the front of the line cheered and the cheer moved through the line of young men in a wave. Vorotynsky vaguely wondered if the Tatars would hear the cheer. It hardly mattered. He didn’t care if they knew he rode to challenge them. Let them hear their death before they saw it.
Vorotynsky mounted his horse.
“Will we engage them hand-to-hand immediately, Sir?” The question came from Feodor Ghukov, Vorotynsky’s right-hand and most trusted under-general.
Vorotynsky shook his head. “No. We will fight intelligently, which means preserving as many of our men’s lives as possible, for as long as possible. Find me a position, Ghukov, where we can start with volleys of arrows.
Ghukov nodded gravely and kicked his horse’s flanks with his heels. “Yes, sir.”
The army of Vorotynsky surged toward the wave of death that awaited them.
Chapter 14
Anne’s toe caught on some unseen root under the snow, and she stumbled. Fear lanced across her belly at the thought of falling into the snow. A petite hand steadied her from behind, grabbing her dress at the small of her back until she regained her balance.
“Thank you, Alma,” Anne whispered over her shoulder once she’d regained her composure.
The other woman didn’t answer verbally, but Anne felt more than saw her nod.
Most of the Russian prisoners plodded along bleakly, too exhausted for verbal communication, but they tried to help keep one another upright. The penalties for falling and slowing down the caravan proved frightening.
The prisoners walked in straight lines, each line tied to the same long rope. Three ropes of prisoners walked side by side, making the prisoners three abreast. Alma walked behind Anne, tied to the same rope as she.
After three days of walking, Anne barely felt her feet anymore. In truth, she counted herself luckier than most. Before leaving the palace three days before with Ekaterina in tow, Anne slid her feet into a pair of outdoor clogs. The kind most people of her station couldn't afford. Yehvah secured several pairs to share among the maids for when they needed to venture outside the palace. Anne thanked Yehvah and the heavens above for those clogs, now. Without them, she’d have lost the ability to walk days ago.
Her feet still ached from walking, of course, but at least they didn’t bleed. She walked in the tracks made by the prisoners plodding in front of her. Frozen blood filled the bottoms of them.
After they first started out, Anne stumbled several times, and Alma caught her. She did her best to return the favor, though it proved more difficult for her as she walked in front. Eventually, the two of them exchanged names in a whisper. She didn’t know a single thing about the woman other than her name. Her clothing said she wasn’t a noble. Beyond that, Anne had no idea what walk of life she came from. Poor merchant? Farmer? Prostitute? In truth, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered here except survival.
The Tatars took them north, into Siberia. Farther north than Anne had ever traveled in her life or cared to. Moscow disappeared into the distance behind them that first day, and now the only things to be seen for miles in any direction were wilderness and snow drifts. This morning, they’d turned east. Anne knew enough about her country’s geography—thanks to Yehvah—to know Kazan lay to the East. They headed into enemy territory, now.
Anne didn’t know what would happen to her. She couldn’t spare the energy to think about it. She simply concentrated on keeping her balance as she walked. Tired as she felt, it proved difficult.