by L.K. Hill
***
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. Summer 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. Erogorov 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. Tara
s 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 ran 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.
He wanted to vomit.
