Citadels of Fire

by L.K. Hill

  ***

  The devastation of the battlefield was more than Inga had prepared for. She’d seen gruesome injuries all day, but nothing compared to the gore of the corpses no one bothered to bring in. Bodies carpeted the plain of Arsk. She’d never imagined such a spectacle could exist.

  Before long, she felt so discouraged, she sank down in the shadow of a dead horse and wept. How would she find Taras amidst this carnage? If he lay face down in the mud, she’d never see him. Some bodies had been hacked to pieces; they were not even identifiable.

  Rubbing her face dry with her hands, she told herself to take a deep breath and think rationally. If Taras lay among the dead, there was no sense in looking for him. Dead was dead. If alive, he would be up, walking, talking, moving somehow.

  Resolving to focus on the living, she got to her feet and resumed her search, stepping over bodies and climbing over boulders.

  The haunting battlefield-turned-cemetery seemed to go on forever, all the way to the horizon. The fighting had largely stopped now, though small sorties still sprung up from time to time. As Inga wandered near a stand of trees, a small group of Tatars burst from another stand thirty feet in front of her. The group divided in two. Four charged a group of Russian soldiers standing nearby. The others ran for the forest of Arsk.

  Greatly outnumbered, the four chargers were quickly cut down. Inga turned away from the gore.

  “Quickly,” one of the Russian officers, shouted. “Bowmen. Those men must not get away. They will take information back to their leaders.” Two bowmen took a knee beside the officer. They each released two arrows. Four solid thuds announced each had found its mark. Russian bowmen were experts at their craft.

  Inga huddled behind her stand of trees until the Russians moved on. She didn’t think they would hurt her, but couldn't be sure. At the least they would insist on escorting her back to the safety of the tsar’s camp, and she refused to leave before searching the field for Taras.

  When they disappeared, she resumed her search. Darkness loomed an hour off, but the sky was overcast, making it darker than usual for this time of day.

  The gloom of the battlefield threatened to consume her. It enveloped her like a blanket of despair. She fought to keep her feet moving, to keep from sinking down beside the corpses. If she succumbed, she might drown like them, in oblivion.

  Dozens of wagons had been brought onto the field. These gathered stray weapons, picking up corpses for mass burial, and carrying soldiers who could not walk to the hospitals. When Inga got to more crowded areas, she hurried from wagon to wagon, peering out from behind them to avoid being seen.

  After what felt like hours and miles of searching, Inga reached a spot teeming with men. Thousands of Russian corpses clustered here. Russian soldiers walked among the bodies, looking for those still breathing, trying to identify the dead, gathering what belongings could be salvaged from the corpses, weeding out the Christian from the Muslim.

  Skulking between two wagons placed parallel to one another, Inga peered out on the scene, trying to ignore the ghastly, still eyes staring from the lifeless bodies.

  A cluster of men circled the field out in front of her. A soldier had been found among the dead who still lived.

  “Artem,” one of the men cried. “It’s Artem. Get Taras.”

  Inga gasped at the sound of his name. Taras appeared, striding across the field toward his fallen man. The sight of him there, walking and relatively unharmed swept such a tide of relief over her that she sank to her knees, unable to hold herself upright.

  Not until Taras pushed through the crowd, which promptly cleared for him, did she realize the man who called out was Nikolai. Good. Then she would have good news for Yehvah, too.

  Taras approached the soldier, who lay upon the ground. The man looked young, younger than Taras, perhaps younger than Inga. He lay partially buried under several corpses. The soldiers standing around him were already pulling them off him.

  When the final body was pulled off Artem, his abdomen, like a bag of mud that had sprung a leak, began pouring out its innards. They piled like thick mud on top of his belly.

  Inga didn’t try to choke back the tears. She’d seen this injury before, where the intestines made their way to the outside. She’d never seen anyone survive it. The soldiers obviously came to the same conclusion. As one, their heads went down in sorrow. Some removed their helmets. Others crossed themselves.

  Inga kept her eyes on Taras. Crouching beside Artem, he grasped the young man’s hand. When he saw the injury, he winced and his eyes stayed shut, his head dropping down in despair.

  If Artem felt or even knew of his own injury, he didn’t show it. He stared at the sky as though seeing it for the first time, a look of awe, and joy on his face. His lips moved. Taras leaned forward and put his ear next to Artem’s mouth.

  Inga knelt too far away to hear. Taras shut his eyes again, his brow creased in pain, as though some unseen blade had stabbed him.

  Taras straightened his back and rested his forehead on the back of his hand, which still held the hand of the injured soldier. His body shook. Taras was sobbing.

  Artem had gone still.

  A moment later, Taras let go of Artem’s hand and stood up. Tears streaked his face, and he turned slowly away, looking like he would be sick.

  Nikolai practically leapt to his feet beside Taras. He grabbed Taras’s arm and pointed directly at Inga. He'd seen her. She'd emerged from between the wagons before sinking to her knees, and the scrap of fabric covering her head had fallen to her shoulders.

  Taras’s eyes widened when he saw her. He turned and barked orders to the men standing around. Four of them picked up Artem’s body.

  Taras started toward her. Nikolai did too, but stayed a few feet behind. Inga got to her feet as they came. He didn’t slow as he approached. He grabbed her by the waist, not bothering to turn her around, and swept her along with him into the space between the wagons. The wagons were piled high enough to hide them from view, provided no one peered directly between the two carts.

  “Inga, what are you doing here?” Anger filled Taras’s voice. “You can’t be out here. It’s dangerous.”

  When they were concealed, he stopped but did not let her go. He used his body to pin her against one of the wooden sides. She knew it was his way of protecting her. More than anything she wanted to throw her arms around him, but didn’t. His anger loomed too close.

  Taras glanced in both directions. Nikolai had followed them to the wagons, but remained outside the small space with his back to them, guarding the entrance. The other side remained completely open.

  Taras gazed down at her, his breath coming hot and rapid on her face. “Inga, what are you doing here?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry. They told us how badly the battle went. I hadn’t heard from you in two days. I was so afraid . . . I didn’t know if you were all right or . . . I needed to find you. I needed to know. I . . .” She dropped her head, and a tear escaped down her cheek. “I had to know.”

  She tilted her chin up and met his gaze. He studied her intently, as though trying to peer into her soul. Then he leaned down and kissed her. Depth and passion, but also sweetness, and she kissed him back. His hands found her neck. They slid down her arms and then wrapped around her lower back, pulling her body into his. His lips left hers, but he didn’t pull back. He pressed his forehead against hers, and she realized some of the tears on her cheeks were his.

  “I’m all right,” he whispered then pulled back to look at her. “How are you?”

  She tried to talk. Only choked sobs came out. She felt like she couldn’t hold her head up anymore, so she let it fall forward and rest on his shoulder. He stroked her hair, or rather her platok. When she could talk again, she managed to whisper, “I’m so glad to see you.”

  Swallowing, he embraced her again, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her neck. He held her there for several seconds, and she wished he wouldn’t let go. Inevitably he did. He k
issed her neck, then her lips again several times.

  “Inga, you must go back. It’s not safe here for you.”

  She nodded, finding strength in relief. “I know. I will. If you’re all right, so am I.” She wiped the moisture from her face several times before it dried.

  He smiled at her briefly slid his fingers along her jaw. “I should have someone escort you back.”

  She shook her head. “No.” She pulled up the material around her head again and he helped her situate it. “I got out here without being noticed. I can get back too.”

  “Stay near the center of the field. Small groups of Tatars are still attacking the perimeter while we try to collect our dead. I’ll come see you as soon as I make it back to camp.” He glanced at Nikolai’s back. “It might not be for a day or two, but I’ll find you when I get there. I promise.”

  She nodded, and he hugged her again. When released her, she walked to the edge of the wagon, where Nikolai stood. She glanced over her shoulder. Taras watched her go, looking haunted.

  As she emerged from the shadow of the wagon, Nikolai moved aside so she could get through. She took a step past him, then stopped. This was none of her business, and certainly not her place, but Yehvah would never do it herself—and would probably berate her for if she found out.

  She turned to Nikolai, who looked at her steadily. “Yehvah asked me to look for you.”

  Nikolai’s eyebrows raised, and his eyes widened a little, but he gave no other response.

  “When I said I needed to know if Taras still lived, she asked me to look for you too. It will give her relief to know you are safe.”

  Nikolai dropped his eyes, and his breathing deepened.

  “I thought you should know.”

  Inga ducked out onto the open battlefield and headed back to the tsar’s camp.