Citadels of Fire

by L.K. Hill

  Chapter 38

  When he got into the hall, Sergei had disappeared. Taras needed air. Badly. He took the course he thought would most quickly lead him outside. It took a while—easily half an hour—before he saw the sky.

  Once outside, he wandered, helping his fellow Russians where he could. A great deal of fighting still filled the streets, but at least this was man fighting man, soldier fighting solider, not women, children and servants being cut down senselessly.

  Someone slammed into him from behind, nearly knocking him over. He kept his balance, though barely, and turned to cross swords with the man who'd run into him. He recognized the soldier as being under Nikolai's command, but couldn't recall his name. Taras crooked his elbow out, so his sword’s weight fell to the left, sliding harmlessly off the other man’s weapon.

  “My apologies, Sir.”

  “No need. In this chaos, collision can hardly be avoided. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “I’ve just received word, sir. Lord Nikolai needs help on the western wall.”

  Taras turned back at the palace, considering. He did not want to go back inside. He could hardly spend his time loitering out here, either. At least helping Nikolai would give him a specific task.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  It took forty-five minutes to reach the western wall. Normally, the journey would not have been so long, but hundreds of Tatar soldiers still filled the city. Taras and the soldier fought their way through the streets.

  They instinctively stayed back to back, covering one another. Taras asked about the trouble at the western wall. The Russian soldier didn’t know. Nikolai sent a courier, calling for aid from anyone who could come, but he knew no more.

  When they reached the western wall, Taras understood the trouble. The soldier he’d talked to earlier said the Tatars were scrambling over Kurbsky’s walls, but the army was taking them down. That was to the north. Outside this portion of the western wall were the steep cliffs the Russian army fastidiously avoided during the siege.

  The Tatars attempted to scale the wall here and run along it until they got to the north side. It proved easier to run along the top of the kremlin than through the streets of the city, which were filled with ax-wielding Russians. Hundreds of Tatars rushed the wall, trying to get on top of it and then head north.

  Nikolai and a small group of men held them off. They stood on top of the wall, hacking with swords and shooting arrows down at the hordes of men trying to climb up.

  The Russian army had entered from the eastern side of the city and pushed the Tatars before them. It would be another few minutes before the rest of the army reached the western wall and could subdue those trying to go over it. The Tatars were desperate to escape now because it would only get harder the longer they waited.

  The soldier Taras arrived with ran forward, hacking and swiping at those near the back of the crowd. Taras joined him. He couldn’t reach Nikolai through so many people, but if they got a few of the Tatars to turn around and fight them, there would be fewer to overwhelm Nikolai and his small cadre.

  A man fighting atop the wall was pushed so violently, he lost his balance and fell over the outside of the wall. The jagged, rocky cliffs below would smash a body to pieces. That fall would be utterly unforgiving.

  For what felt like hours, Taras threw his body back and forth in a battle dance with the Tatars. They kept coming at him, one after another. He was a good soldier, but the Tatars were skilled and more desperate than he. At least twenty-five times he felt the scales of war and destiny trying to balance. The struggle grew vicious, and he never knew who would win, until his opponent fell. Then, a new opponent surfaced, and it began again.

  Whenever he could, Taras glanced up at the wall, afraid Nikolai would be thrown over or fall to a Tatar blade before Taras could get to him. Each time he looked, Nikolai wore more blood on his face, arms, or armor, but he still stood, fighting with the ferocity of a wounded animal.

  Slowly, more Russians trickled toward that side of the city. They joined Taras and the other soldier and a few others who'd arrived in answer to Nikolai’s call. More Tatars turned to the threat at their backs. Once the trickle began, it increased quickly, and more Russians soon poured in.

  In another ten minutes, the situation at the western wall was under control.

  The Tatars were rounded up into groups, to be taken prisoner. The Russians ran some through if they would not behave, or bludgeoned them until they did. Those climbing the walls were pulled down or pushed off. Many landed on swords or their own city’s defenses. Others died when their falling countrymen crushed them.

  Taras strode toward the wall. He wanted to check on Nikolai. He climbed up on barrels and crates stacked by the would-be escapees. Once he neared the top, the Russian soldiers offered their hands to help him. Two young soldiers pulled him up. He sat rather than standing.

  The wall was six feet wide, and Nikolai sat several feet away, his large forearms resting on his knees. Though he'd not been fighting for several minutes now, his chest still heaved, and a lot of blood spattered his armor.

  “You all right?” Taras shouted.

  Nikolai nodded but swallowed before answering. “Yes.” A white, sticky film covered his lips. He licked them several times.

  Taras would have offered him water if he had any. He continued to peer at his friend, unconvinced of Nikolai’s condition. When Nikolai noticed Taras studying at him, he spread his hands.

  “I’m as surprised as you are.”

  The two men chuckled together, mostly with relief.

  Taras got to his feet, surveying the carnage below him in the city. He turned a full circle, examining the carnage outside the walls as well. When he came back around, Nikolai stood beside him.

  “Thank you for coming,” Nikolai said.

  “Of course.”

  Nikolai took a deep breath. “How are things in the palace on the acropolis?”

  Taras hesitated, not sure what to say. “It’s probably been taken by now.”

  Nikolai arched an eyebrow, as though sensing something Taras wasn’t saying. Taras ignored him. Young soldiers stood within ear shot, and he didn’t want to go into the brutality that accompanied the “taking” of the palace right now.

  A cold, refreshing wind blew from the east, hitting them full in the face. It blew Taras’s hair back, which stuck to his neck and scalp, and cooled his flushed skin. The soldiers on the wall climbed down into the city. In a few minutes, only Taras and Nikolai remained. Taras wanted to stay up here with the wind and the quiet.

  “Now, my lord. GO!”

  Taras whirled toward the cry. Two Tatar men jumped out of munitions barrels sitting on top of the wall and made a run for it. One of them wore expensive clothing; the other was obviously his servant. Nikolai and Taras lunged for them.

  Nikolai reached the servant first, who stood in their way, trying to bar them so his master could scramble down the other side of the wall. Nikolai knocked him over the head with the hilt of his sword. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the ground.

  Taras reached the rich man in two strides, long before he made it to the other side of the wall. He grabbed the rich man’s wrist and swung him around so they came face to face. Taras’s arm automatically went up, bracing for a blow should the other man swing around with a sword, but the man was unarmed. Taras grabbed his other wrist, keeping him from fleeing.

  Then he stopped.

  Taras knew this man. He’d met him before. The Khan of Kasimov, the man Taras rode beside on his way into Moscow. The same man whose life Taras inadvertently saved when he slew the wolf. Taras had no idea what this man was doing here. Many of the khanates in this region had alliances, so he supposed it made sense. This man had terribly bad luck by being present in Kazan when the Russian army laid siege to it.

  The recognition threw Taras, and he stared in shock. The Khan of Kasimov pressed his advantage. He yanked his wrist from Taras’s grasp, pulle
d a tiny dagger from his belt and slammed it down through the top of Taras’s hand. Taras cried out in pain.

  The Khan tried with all his strength to wriggle his other wrist free of Taras’s grasp. Taras held on, and the man threw his body backward, trying to get away. Being a well-fed noble, he weighed three times what Taras did. Thrusting himself back so violently, he stumbled over a dead body that lay spread-eagled on the wall, and lost his footing.

  Taras concentrated on hanging on to the man, but registered movement out of the corner of his eye. Nikolai. When the Khan stumbled precariously close to the edge of the wall, Nikolai dove in to catch his other wrist. The Khan jerked backward, trying to get away from Taras and Nikolai without falling to his death.

  Nikolai was wrenched forward onto his stomach with such force that his legs were thrown out over the drop. He held onto the top of the wall by his fingers. The Khan also fell over the side; Taras gritted his teeth, straining with every muscle to hold on to him.

  Nikolai hung from the ramparts two feet from the Khan. His fingers would only hold out so long. His knuckles trembled.

  Still holding the Khan by one hand, Taras held his other above Nikolai’s white knuckles. Nikolai took a few breaths, readying himself, then let go of the wall with both hands and clasped them around Taras’s wrist.

  Taras was yanked forward, and they all nearly plummeted to their deaths on the rocky cliffs below. He only barely held on. He squatted, holding on to two men, both of whom were bigger than he. His calves, thighs, shoulders, and arms shook with the effort.

  Nikolai threw his backside outward, putting his feet flat against the stone wall, and climbed. The Khan hung there, limp and helpless in his bulk.

  “Please, young man,” his eyes held fear, “don’t let me fall. I don’t remember your name, but I remember you. In Siberia, remember? I took an interest in you.”

  When Taras spoke, it came through gritted teeth and streams of sweat.

  “Why are you fleeing the city? Aren’t you allied with the tsar?”

  The Khan glanced over his shoulder to the jagged cliffs below. His eyes darted back and forth.

  “Yes, but the tsar does not know I am here. I feared of being mistaken for a Tatar of Kazan and treated like a prisoner of war. I needed to get the tsar’s attention. If taken prisoner, the guards would never believe me—” Taras’s hold on both men slipped, and the Khan, sensing it, talked faster. “Prisoners are never given an audience with the tsar. So I ran, you see.”

  Taras understood. He’d always been perceptive.

  “What you mean is,” his teeth were still gritted, “you are supposed to be loyal to the tsar, but here you are, secretly negotiating with his enemies. If he found you here, he’d execute you for disloyalty. For treason.”

  The Khan’s eyes no longer darted back and forth. They fixed on his own wrist, slipping steadily through Taras’s grip. “Yes. You must help me. I am a powerful man. We two could have a secret alliance. I could give you wealth and power beyond the wildest dreams of a soldier.”

  Nikolai made good progress. He climbed high enough that Taras had to raise his arm up so Nikolai could climb the rest of the way. Most of Nikolai’s weight was still on him, though.

  Ice covered the wall. They hadn't seen snow in a month, but the weather wasn't warm enough to melt the ice. Nikolai must have stepped on a patch of it, because he lost his footing and fell. Hard. Taras again jerked violently forward. The muscles in his neck felt like they were tearing. A terrible fear of not having the strength to hold on to his friend rose in his gut.

  “Please, young man,” the Khan sounded more desperate by the second. “I took an interest in you. I—”

  Taras tuned him out. Time to make a decision. He’d already made it, in truth, but following through was difficult. The Khan was a traitor, but also a human being, right there, inches from Taras, and in his grasp.

  Nikolai’s hand slipped inches further so he and Taras clasped hands instead of arms. That was enough for Taras. He would not trade the life of his friend, a good man and soldier of Russia, for a Tatarian traitor.

  Feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him, he opened his hand.

  The Khan did not scream or cry out. Rather, he froze. Terror seized his face, his eyes, and he fell backward, as if in slow motion.

  Taras tore his gaze away from the Khan and clasped his other hand securely around Nikolai’s forearm. Planting his feet, he heaved with all his might. It brought Nikolai’s torso up onto the top of the wall. Taras rested only a second before grabbing Nikolai’s bicep and dragging him the rest of the way up. Sickening thunking sounds that got fainter as they went--the Khan’s body bouncing on the cliffs below--reached his ears.

  The two men sat side by side, panting and aching for several minutes. The khan’s servant stirred beside them.

  “Thank you,” Nikolai said.

  Taras raised his eyebrows briefly. “Sorry it took so long.”