by K L Conger
Anne shook her head. “Not for certain, my lord. As far as I know, she remained in the Kremlin when the enemy attacked, so I assume so. I don’t think they ever breached its walls. But I cannot be certain.”
Taras rubbed his horse’s neck absently. “I need to be certain,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve built a little homestead in a valley many miles from here. I’ve even acquired a son to care for, if you can believe it.”
Anne felt mild surprise. It floated on the outskirts of her consciousness, outside the numbing cold. Curiosity floated beside it, but she couldn’t muster the motivation to ask him.
“I’m waiting for Inga to come to me. If she’s gone, and the possibility no longer exists, I should move on.” He heaved a great sigh. His eyes focused on her and he smiled. “When did you last eat?”
“Last evening, my lord. They only feed us before we sleep.”
Taras dug into his saddle once more and pulled out a wrapped parcel. From it, he pulled chunks of dried meat, which he handed up to her. She swallowed them almost without chewing.
He gazed out across Siberia’s vast landscape, and nodded to himself. Anne wondered if he recognized the unconscious motion.
“Do you wish to return to Moscow, Anne?” he asked.
Anne frowned. “You bought me, Lord Taras. It is your choice where I go.”
He shook his head. “No. I bought your freedom, not your servitude. You may go where you wish. Honestly, I could use some help looking after a small baby. But your life is your own. If you wish to return to it in Moscow, I will take you there.”
Anne’s thoughts staggered sluggishly. Everything felt...surreal. She considered the idea that she only dreamed her rescue by Lord Taras. Perhaps she still slept in a snow covered camp, tied to Alma and the other prisoners, and would soon wake and chuckle darkly at her hopeful dream.
Still, Taras seemed to want an answer, and Anne didn’t know which one to give. She’d never been given a choice about what to do with her life. She’d only ever known life in the palace. She stared down at Taras, who watched her inquisitively.
“Forgive me, my lord. My eyes want to close by themselves. What you ask...I cannot comprehend it. Must I decide this minute?”
Taras hesitated, then shook his head. “I suppose not. I will take you back to my cabin, half a day’s ride from here. There you can rest and eat and sleep a few days. Perhaps it will help you make your decision. I’ll set out for Moscow again tomorrow. A friend of mine from a nearby village is looking after the baby. Perhaps you can assist him while you get your strength back. Forgive me. I am impatient to learn of Inga’s fate. When I return, if you wish to go back to Moscow, I will take you. If you wish to stay with me in Anechka Valley, you will be most welcome.”
Without waiting for any kind of answer, he swung up on the horse behind her, threading his arms under hers to grasp the reins. In any other situation, Anne might have found it awkward to share so intimate a pose with him. Today, she felt grateful for it. She’d probably have fallen off the horse otherwise.
Chapter 15
Inga caught snatches of the general’s speech. She even thought she recognized the voice. A general who’d come to the palace many times to speak with Ivan and his other military advisors. She thought this was the great battle lord, Mikhail Vorotynsky. Even Taras spoke well of him. He’d been one of the heroes of Kazan.
Vorotynsky held loyalty to Ivan. Sort of. According to Nikolai, his true loyalty lay with Russia. Even with Ivan on the throne, his loyalty didn't wane. Inga didn’t know anything of Vorotynsky’s character. She didn’t know if he would show her kindness if he found her.
Directly after the general’s speech, the column of horsemen moved forward. It took some time for them to pick up speed again, and probably half an hour passed before they’d left the road entirely.
Inga heaved a breath of relief when they’d gone. Not that she should be relieved at all. The delay put her even farther behind any prisoners taken by the Tatars, and she now had a better idea of the battle that might be out ahead of her.
She emerged slowly from her hiding place, shoulders popping uncomfortably from being in the same position on the hard ground so long. She sighed wondering what to do.
“VOLLEY!” VOROTYNSKY shouted.
Another slew of arrows left his archers. They arced up in a perfect horseshoe trajectory and landed hard amongst the armies of Kazan, instantly grounding dozens upon dozens of Eastern soldiers. Their screams of pain reached Vorotynsky’s ears from across the battlefield.
Behind them, as yet out of reach of the arrows, a wave of Eastern soldiers, all with black hair and multi-hued armor, raced toward him, screaming war cries.
This would be the final volley. Despite how many of them his archers took down, the Tatars drew too close for arrows to be useful any longer. Now swords and maces would need to prevail.
Vorotynsky divided his army and sent them in multiple directions to execute different attacks from various positions. His force fell upon the enemy’s rear, taking the Tatars completely by surprise. The arrows did a most satisfactory job of picking off scores of Devlet-Guirey’s men and confusing his formations.
“Sir?” Ghukov said. His horse stood calmly fifteen feet from Vorotynsky’s.
Vorotynsky knew the question Ghukov wanted answered. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. If anything, it had the opposite effect. Vorotynsky sent a silent prayer to the Almighty, asking Him to protect Vorotynsky’s men and give Russia victory. He turned to Ghukov. “Give the order.”
Ghukov nodded grimly, the light of determination in his eyes. Raising his fist above his head, he shouted, “Forward! Engage the enemy!” He moved his fist from backward to forward in the air, and the army obeyed. Vorotynsky dug his heels into his horse’s flank in unison with his men. As one, they galloped toward the tide of Eastern soldiers racing toward them.
INGA SQUATTED BESIDE the bush, considering her options. The clang of swords sounded so near, she wasn’t sure she could go any direction without running into the battle, including back toward Moscow.
Perhaps she ought to cross to the other side of the road. She didn’t know if it would help, but it seemed to her that the clanging sound of swords came from the opposite direction. Perhaps putting the road between her and them would be wise.
Before she could move, the sound of clanging metal grew deafening. Inga’s heart jumped into her throat as dozens of dueling men crashed through the brush in front of her. Cries of pain came from all around her as the battle spilled into this part of the forest.
Two men stumbled directly into her path. One, tall and light-skinned with dark hair was obviously a Russian. The man he fought was much shorter with darker hair and tilted eyes. The shorter man slashed at the Russian soldier with his sword. The force of the blow spun the Russian soldier to face Inga. He stared at her for a moment with blank eyes before a river of blood poured slowly down his neck.
Gasping in horror, Inga whirled toward the road and ran.
VOROTYNSKY WIPED SWEAT from his forehead. After hours of battle, he stood in a tiny, makeshift camp with dozens of his soldiers milling around him. A map of the immediate area lay open across a boulder the size of a royal table. His under-generals sent couriers every hour or so to update him on their progress and let him know how the battle proceeded. He sent them back his orders.
Vorotynsky’s army did well, considering their inferior numbers. Yet they remained far from victory. Vorotynsky didn’t even have confidence in eventual victory. This battle would either redeem him in the eyes of his Tsar, or resign his wife to being the widow of a disgraced general who failed to save his country.
He stared at the map, trying to form his next strategy.
Horse hooves announced a new courier. Vorotynsky didn’t bother to look up from the map. If the courier’s news proved relevant, it would be brought to him. Sure enough, a moment later, a Russian soldier appeared and took a knee, clapping hand to chest.
“What news have
you?” Vorotynsky asked gruffly.
The soldier practically leapt to his feet and pointed to a position on the map. “Ten thousand men here, Sir.” He shifted his finger an inch to the right. “Fifteen thousand here. They await your orders.”
Vorotynsky stared up in surprise. “Neither of these groups currently engage the enemy?” he asked.
The soldier shook his head. “Their generals both moved to new positions and as yet, have gone undiscovered by the enemy, Sir. They have the element of surprise and ask what your orders are.”
Vorotynsky studied the map again, doing mental calculations. A plan of attack awakened in his mind all at once. He watched it play out across the map in a way that might—just might—give them victory.
He couldn’t be certain, of course. It would be a gamble of the highest order. Still, hope surged in his chest. Vorotynsky leapt to his feet. The energy of that hope burst in every muscle in his body, making him feel as though if he didn’t get up and run, his body would spasm with it.
“Sir?” Ghukov said, looking mildly surprised at the general’s sudden movement.
“We must hurry, Ghukov,” Vorotynsky said. “Divide the army in two. Half will stay here with you. Give me ninety minutes and then attack.”
Ghukov’s eyebrows drew toward his hairline as Vorotynsky spoke. “And you, general? Where will you go?”
Vorotynsky ran his index finger along the map, pointing as he spoke. “I go to decide our fate, soldier. And God be with us. I’ll take the other half of the army and swing around the rear of the Tatar force. These two groups are already there. I’ll give them orders as I pass and move up on the other side of the Khazan force.”
Ghukov studied the map in wonder as Vorotynsky explained, his mouth forming a small oh. “You mean to flank them,” he murmured.
“Yes,” Vorotynsky nodded. “When you attack, their attentions will turn to you. I’ll attack from the other side, while these two small forces attack from the rear. They will be forced to fight us on three fronts. We have a small window of opportunity. Devlet-Guirey’s army will not stay in one position for long. We must act. Now!”
His voice snapped and every soldier in camp leapt into action.
INGA JUMPED OVER ROCKS and scrambled under bushes, fighting her way through the woods. She tried to move away from battle, but it dogged her footsteps. She couldn’t run in a straight line. When she tried, fighting soldiers fell violently into her path, forcing her to hide behind trees or under bushes until she found another clear route through the carnage.
Most of the soldiers focused too intently on one another to notice her. Still, she had to find a way around them, or wait for them to pass. Each pause meant more soldiers surrounding her, slamming swords or sabers together, or fighting with knives, clubs, or hands and feet. Each time she thought perhaps she’d gotten out ahead of battle, it surrounded her once more.
Inga stooped to snatch a rock from the forest floor. It fit perfectly in her palm and would be an effective weapon if she needed one. A possibility which increased by the second.
Scanning the forest around her for an escape, her eyes fell on one particular Tatar. Blood spattered his face and clothing, as well as his armor. His stood shorter and smaller than most Russian men—the typical physique of the Eastern Tatars—yet the expression on his olive-skinned face showed pure rage. Inga remembered a drawing she once saw of a Siberian tiger about to attack. The man looked like that.
His eyes fell on her and he stalked purposefully toward her. Before she could react, another soldier tackled him from the left. They rolled across the ground together and Inga ran. She leaped over dead bodies and tried to find her way to clearer parts of the forest. Bursting through some trees, she only found more fighting. She no longer ran ahead of the battle. It had fully overtaken her. She searched feverishly for a way through it.
Weaving through trees and shrubs, Inga avoided the fighting as best she could. Minutes later, she came face to face with that same Tatar demon. The one that looked like a Siberian tiger. He pursued her. Which meant the soldier who’d tackled him probably lay dead somewhere.
Inga turned and ran...directly into another soldier's chest. She hit him so hard, she fell on her backside and bounced. She stared up at the tall solider, who blinked down at her in confusion. He looked over her head and then stepped past her in time to meet the Tatar coming at her.
Scrambling on hands and knees over to a tree, Inga turned to watch them clash, grasping the rock in her palm. The Russian swung his sword with skilled precision, but the Tatar man proved swift at evasion. He practically ran circles around the Russian man. He circled around behind the Russian and swiped at his calves. The Russian went down with a cry, landing on his back. The Tatar straddled the Russian, placing one foot on either side of the Russian soldier’s hips. The Russian soldier lay motionless, staring blankly up at the Tatar but didn’t seem capable of reacting. Raising his sword, tip down, the Tatar prepared to plunge it into the Russian’s chest.
Inga leapt up and jumped on the Tatar’s back. Her sudden weight threw him off balance and he stumbled forward, falling onto his right knee, his left leg stretched out over the Russian soldier’s belly.
Raising her rock over her head, she slammed it down on the apex of man's skull. She didn’t think she’d done much damage. The Tatar confirmed her theory a moment later when he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her forward, over his shoulder. She flipped forward and landed on her back on the ground, all the air rushing from her lungs. Above her, the Tatar raised his sword. The obsidian point would come down directly into her throat. From the left top of her vision, a thick metal bar came into view and impaled the Easterner’s chest.
Inga gasped and rolled away, coming to a stop on her belly a few feet away. She raised her head, fighting to draw air into her lungs. The Russian soldier, still partially underneath the Tatar, had gripped the hilt of his own sword and slammed it through the Tatar’s chest. He placed a heavy boot on the man's chest, shoving him backwards off the sword. Inga noted the blood streaming from the Russian man’s calves. He wore sturdy boots, which might be helpful, but she doubted he’d be able to walk effectively. It occurred to her that she could use her platok—still gripped in one hand—to wrap his wounds.
Inga looked over her shoulder toward Moscow, knowing she should run again. Something told her the mission to save Anne and Ekaterina had come to an end. She might as well do what she could here, and leave the rest in God’s hands. Besides, this soldier saved her life. She couldn’t simply abandon him.
With a sigh, she pushed up onto her hands and knees and crawled toward the Russian man. "Here, soldier. Let me tend your wound."
Chapter 16
Vorotynsky rode back into his makeshift camp with less glory than he would have preferred. Today had not been about glory, but a man always wished to ride with his head held high. Vorotynsky did his best. He suspected he looked more like a walking ghoul. His shoulders slumped on their own and his spine refused to straighten. Perspiration covered his skin and he fought to keep his own head from dropping onto his chest.
The battle raged for hours. He didn’t know how many. He’d barely registered the sun moving overhead. The battlefield sat in the shadow of a small town called Molodi. Something he didn’t realize until he’d ridden past it dozens of times throughout the day. The residents had fled. Many of them probably went to ground in the woods somewhere. He prayed they hadn’t become collateral damage in this war.
He rode a different horse than he’d left camp on. His beloved stallion fell on the field, cut out from under him by a Tatar soldier on one of those damned ponies they rode so expertly. The horse rolled and died minutes later under Eastern hooves.
The mount beneath him belonged to one of the lesser Russian generals. Its owner disappeared into the dust of the battle, and Vorotynsky’s men procured the horse for his use.
Dried blood splattered the front of the general’s breastplate. Gore covered his injured left arm, which hun
g limp at his side. Still, he lived. He couldn’t rejoice yet, though. He’d not yet ascertained the full results of the battle.
His flanking maneuver went well, to say the least. Much better than expected. Almost too well for Vorotynsky’s taste. He didn’t trust in luck or battles too easily won. And yet, the Russian artillery captured the adversary’s positions one after another, in a perfect line, like falling towers. They won the day, at least. But did they win the war?
Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of dirty, blood-covered soldiers milled about the haphazard camp. They parted for him like an ocean wave as he rode in.
Ghukov stood beside the same boulder he and Vorotynsky hunched over hours before, though no map lay across the stone this time. Ghukov appeared about like Vorotynsky felt. The man’s face looked gaunt. Cuts and bruises covered every exposed inch of the man’s skin. No doubt Ghukov had lost as much blood as Vorotynsky this day. Perhaps more. Still, Ghukov stood on his feet. Vorotynsky named the man his right-hand general for good reason. Ghukov knew how to survive, even in the chaos of the battlefield.
Vorotynsky dismounted stiffly and clasped hands with Ghukov. “You live,” he said with more enthusiasm than he felt.
Ghukov grinned. “As do you, Sir. Let me be the first to offer my congratulations.”
Hope reared its head in Vorotynsky’s chest. He squashed it ruthlessly. “Congratulations?” he asked warily, not daring to believe in Russia’s victory without absolute confirmation.
Ghukov’s grin widened and he nodded. “Even now, Devlet-Guirey and his army flee back toward their homeland sir. This morning, one hundred and twenty thousand of them attacked our mother city. Tonight, twenty thousand remain. They’ve abandoned their tents, their baggage. Even their flag. You’ve done it, general. Moscow and Russia owe you the greatest of debts.”
Ghukov bowed at the waist, his torso coming parallel with the ground. Around them, the rest of the soldiers in the camp followed suit, some mimicking Ghukov’s bow while others took a knee and clapped fists to chest.