Revolution and Rising

by Ripley Proserpina

  Pytor and Evgeny talked quietly, keeping pace with the soldiers, and Anatoliy had to admit, they impressed him. They didn’t complain and they’d left the leadership of the soldiers to Anatoliy.

  Their main concern was Konstantin, and their discussions revolved around division of power, and whether or not there should be a king.

  Like other nobility, the princes only became aware of Anatoliy when they needed him. It was something he was used to as a soldier. In the Lyceum, where soldiers trained, those of his friends who also came from noble families struggled when their superiors ignored them.

  The aristocracy often spoke as if their servants weren’t present, and for those nobles-turned-officers, it was difficult to realize they’d taken on a position of servant themselves.

  All cadets had the idea drilled into them: they were servants of the king. That was their primary role. It no longer mattered if they were the middle son of a duke, or the youngest son of a baron. They were officers and soldiers first and foremost.

  Anatoliy learned much in those moments where he stood by, waiting for the princes to notice his presence. Pytor wanted to rule, though he didn’t declare it outright. Evgeny challenged him, made him defend his opinions. Their early discussions were both a debate and banter, surprising Anatoliy. Perhaps it was what brothers did, tease and poke at each other, no matter their age.

  But in the last few days, Evgeny had changed. It wasn’t just a change of personality, but a physical change. When Anatoliy first arrived at the camp, the man seemed rough, but honorable. Both he and Pytor took time to make sure they were neat, but neither of them shaved or wore anything fancier than their pistol. They each had that look about them that came with living in the field.

  This morning, when Anatoliy answered their summons, he was surprised to see the older brother pressed, shaved, combed, and curled. He fairly dripped in cologne, a scent so pungent it would warn off any upwind game they hoped to hunt.

  Evgeny regarded Anatoliy differently, too. He’d leered with a familiarity that made Anatoliy instantly uncomfortable. His countenance had changed a second later, and he’d appeared confused, and, if his flushed cheeks were any indication, embarrassed.

  But Evgeny seemed much more himself now, despite the cologne. Both Pytor and his brother were in remarkably good shape for two noblemen. They kept up smartly with the soldiers, and even carried packs, albeit smaller ones.

  The way between camp and Zvevlotskia, the town with a telegraph, was dotted with villages, none of them big enough, or—what was the word Evgeny used?—civilized enough to have a telegraph office. They would be forced to march north, and then west to get to Zvevlotskia. Along the way they would stop and resupply in some of the smaller villages.

  The first village was two days trek from the camp. The men would be eating field rations, and they would be sleeping in tents. Not the fancy, festooned tents of the Hunt, but small tripods. They would sleep in their boots and their overcoats, two to a tent, huddling for warmth.

  Anatoliy shivered, thinking about being warm reminded him of how cold the day was. Snowflakes caught on his gloves, and he flexed his fingers to circulate his blood. He watched his hands move, amazed that something so small could mean so much to him.

  Tap, he told his fingertip, and it tapped the end of his rifle.

  Squeeze, he ordered, and his hand squeezed around the barrel of the gun. He could bring his fingertip and thumb together, he could pluck at his coat, turn his button through a hole.

  Anatoliy blew the flakes off his gloves. This morning he’d cut the tips of material off each finger so manipulating the trigger and hammer was easier.

  Now, he held the rifle in his hands, scouted the woods, called out directions and solved problems. It was as if he’d never been a bear.

  A whistle sounded from the front of the line and the soldiers came to a stop. Anatoliy jogged forward, signaling to the princes to stay where they were and for the soldiers to surround them. He met the mustachioed supplies officer on the way.

  “Kapetan.” The man bowed and saluted. “There are townspeople ahead.” Anatoliy waited for the man to catch his breath and continue. “They are armed.”

  “Ready the men,” Anatoliy said.

  The officer nodded, grabbing his whistle from around his neck and blew two short bursts. The soldiers stopped and dropped their rifles from their shoulders to their hands, a ready defensive position.

  Anatoliy rushed ahead with the officer to see the townspeople for himself. As they met, he came to a quick stop and raised his rifle to his shoulder. “Lower your weapons,” he commanded.

  The townspeople stared at him, their faces blank, their hands steady. These weren’t trained soldiers, for all their fingers hovered over the triggers. Anatoliy did a quick headcount. Ten men, mostly middle-aged.

  “Lower your weapons,” Anatoliy commanded again. “So we might speak.”

  That made the men react. They glanced at each other as if searching for the person who would make the decision.

  “Who is in charge?” Anatoliy asked. He kept his rifle raised, but canted his head, so he was not staring down the barrel at them. Let them think it made him less accurate.

  “He is not here,” someone answered after a moment. “Our orders are to stop and detain any government forces passing through our borders.”

  “Your borders?” Prince Evgeny joined them. “This is Konstantin.”

  “We’ve taken control of our town from the landlords. We work this land. It is ours.” The other townspeople called out sounds of agreement.

  “Evgeny.” Pytor called his brother back.

  “No.” Ignoring Pytor, he stepped in front of Anatoliy. He threw back his head, staring down his nose at the townspeople. In response, the ragged group readied their guns, lifting them to their shoulders. With no other choice, Anatoliy placed his finger on the trigger.

  “Step back,” he commanded the prince, but Evgeny waved him away, as imperious as his dead brother, the king.

  “You are our subjects. We are your masters. You do not take this land. You work it as your fathers and grandfathers before you worked it.”

  “Evgeny!” Pytor leapt into action, placing himself between his brother and the people. He tugged on Evgeny, urging him back while surreptitiously moving his hand to the pistol on his hip.

  Evgeny’s words angered the townspeople, but still they held off. They did not shoot.

  Their lack of response seemed to enflame the prince. “Ungrateful!” he spat, and suddenly pulled his pistol from his holster to fire at the men.

  The forest filled with gunfire and the smell of black powder as the civilians returned fire. Anatoliy went to one knee, aiming for shoulders, legs, parts of the body where he could handicap but not kill.

  But the soldiers were trained, and when fired upon, they instinctively aimed to kill. It did not take long for a hundred soldiers to kill ten men. Anatoliy, senses heightened from the rush of battle, caught the telltale shuffle of booted feet. Reinforcements fast approached.

  “Defensive positions!” he commanded, and the men spread out, dropping their supplies to find trees, or rocks.

  Pytor dragged Evgeny away from the heart of the battle. The confident, cocky prince from moments before was gone, leaving a confused-looking man in his wake.

  “What is happening?” he asked Pytor, over and over. “What is happening?”

  Anatoliy didn’t have time to worry over Evgeny’s personality change. His soldiers were about to be surrounded. “All directions, men!” he cried.

  The men shifted their positions, placing themselves back-to-back with another man. Anatoliy pulled back his trigger, sweeping the rifle as he checked for signs of movement.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Men and women ran full-tilt into their path like birds flushed out for a hunt. Anatoliy’s men reacted automatically to the threat, and in moments, the pop and snap of gunfire receded so the only sound was that of the injured or dying.

  “Provide
aid for the injured,” Anatoliy directed. “Send out a squad to scout their base and then report back to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” his supplies officer answered.

  Anatoliy took his pack off his back, digging through it for his first aid supplies before kneeling next to an injured person. He examined the man, who rolled back and forth in pain, moaning. He cried out once, and then his eyes closed, unconscious.

  Which is a blessing. Anatoliy removed the man’s coat to see his wounds. Because he will not live.

  There were too many injured for Anatoliy to linger over the dying man. He forced himself to stand and walk away.

  They didn’t have the supplies or skill to treat everyone. Only those who had a chance for survival would receive treatment. When his scouts returned, they would have to leave the wounded and dying where they lay. Hopefully, there were wives, sisters, or mothers waiting not far away. And when the smoke of gunpowder cleared, they’d rush into the forest for their men.

  As for Anatoliy’s squadron, they’d continue as fast as possible to the town with the telegraph.

  A man nearby held his shoulder, blood seeping from between his fingers. Anatoliy knelt and gently pried the man’s fingers away from the bullet hole. It appeared to be a clean shot with an exit wound. The man’s teeth chattered, and Anatoliy dropped his pack to search for his wool blanket. Tonight, Anatoliy would shiver, but he’d give this man a chance—as long as he didn’t go into shock.

  As Anatoliy traveled from one injured person to another, his mind went to Polya. Was she safe?

  In all his past missions, he and Dara had never been attacked by an organized group of villagers. These were not organized brigades of revolutionary minded students.

  These were farmers. Laborers.

  Anatoliy sighed. This was a new development and one which would change how the squadron moved through the land.

  They would need to split up into small groups and head in different directions, staying away from towns or villages. They would gather as one force near Zvevlotskia and secure the town.

  Had they happened upon one rogue village, or was this happening in every town? Had Polya been accosted by gun-toting citizens?

  Anatoliy clenched his teeth. He needed to get to her. He was running out of time.

  10

  Tracked

  Dara set a fast pace, and for the first time, Polya struggled to keep up. The squad stayed together. At times, Dara sent a few men ahead, but they came back quickly, ensuring him that the trail was safe.

  Hours passed, and Dara gradually relaxed the pace. Polya panted, hand on her side to soothe the ache that developed an hour ago.

  “Just a little farther, Polya,” he assured her. “Then we’ll rest.”

  Polya nodded, too winded to speak.

  “Kapetan,” one of the soldiers hurried up to them. “Someone is behind us.”

  Dara peered apologetically at Polya. As he opened his mouth, a volley of gunshots erupted, splitting the trees around them. Pine needles and slivers of wood exploded. Polya ducked, throwing her arms up to protect her face.

  “Run.” Dara spoke calmly, but removed his pistol. Grabbing her arm, he forced her forward, pushing her to run.

  So Polya ran. A shot whizzed by her ear and struck the tree next to her with a snap. She leapt over a fallen log and suddenly, she was with Anatoliy again, running from the bullets that herded them toward the mountain. Dara fired over his shoulder, growling when he missed his target. And it was not Dara’s growl Polya heard, but Anatoliy’s.

  She stumbled, feet caught on the hem of her skirt, and she fell to one knee. Dara was there in an instant, pulling her back to standing and then wrapping an arm around her waist to propel her forward. It felt wrong, all wrong, but Polya forced herself to move when all she really wanted to do was take advantage of the opportunity and stand in the path of the bullets.

  “No,” Dara hissed, as if he could read her mind. “Move.”

  Polya hoisted her skirts higher and ran. The air was fire in her lungs and her legs ached, but she moved.

  They ran up a small incline, the soldiers around her firing and running, stopping and aiming. As they got to the crest of the hill, Dara whirled around and swore. He gave a quick whistle and the men spread out.

  “They pushed us here,” he told her. Polya followed his gaze down the hill. “If we go down there we’ll be massacred. It’s a gully.”

  There was no cover except for the ground. Dara reached for his knife and held it out to her. “Here.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t need it.”

  “Protect yourself, Polya.” His voice was urgent and pleading. “Take it.”

  She grimaced at him, and her tail whipped against his ankles. His gaze lingered on her fangs, and he finally understood.

  “I don’t need it.”

  Whoever was firing on them stopped just as the words left Polya’s mouth. A voice called through the forest. “Surrender, and we let you live!”

  Dara canted his head to one side, glancing over at Polya. He remained silent, listening closely. He gestured to one of the soldiers, who moved toward a tree. A quick volley of fire pulled him up short. “Don’t move! You are surrounded on all sides! This is your last chance.”

  “How do we know you won’t harm us?”

  “We know the princess is with you. We would not harm her.”

  “That doesn’t bode well for the rest of us.” Dara winked at Polya, shocking her into a choked laugh.

  “I’m not going with them, whoever they are,” Polya told him.

  “Of course not,” Dara assured her.

  A bullet struck the tree next to Polya, and she hissed. Dara whistled low, and as one, all the soldiers lifted their rifles to their shoulders.

  Between the trees came a figure, and as he came closer, Polya recognized him. A growl built low in her throat, and she found herself leaning forward, ready to launch at this new threat.

  “Princess. Wait.” Dara’s voice was low and meant only for her.

  Her fingers remained clawed as she waited for Lukas to come closer.

  “Go back to Vaskova, Lukas,” Dara warned.

  Lukas held his hands to show he had no weapon.

  “What are you doing here?” Polya asked.

  “I followed you.”

  “Are these men yours?” Dara asked. “Call them off.”

  He shook his head. “If you had reserved your judgment for a moment, I would have told you how things have changed.” Lukas called out over his shoulder. “Citizens.”

  It was not a ragged group of townspeople who materialized, but a group of men in uniforms. Soldiers. Polya expected a hundred such men to emerge from the shadows, but there were twenty, maybe thirty.

  “What is this?” Dara asked, his voice low and angry. “What is this?”

  There was no shame on the soldiers’ faces. They stared down Dara with as much intensity as he held.

  “The king is dead—” Lukas began.

  “But Konstantin endures! We took an oath!” Dara shouted. He shifted his gaze to each soldier, and they returned his glare.

  “The king is dead and there are no leaders. These men left the army to protect their families, Kapetan. Who is to say an oath to country is more sacred than the ones these men made to their wives? Were they to leave them unprotected?”

  “It is one thing to protect your family.” Polya straightened, and walked toward Lukas. “But it is another thing to murder, or loot, or assassinate.” Dara appeared at her side. “Who are you to these men?” she asked Lukas, tipping her head back to look at him. “Are you their leader?”

  Lukas shrugged.

  “Protecting your family is honorable. I, too, would give anything to keep those I love safe. I don’t fault you for deserting the army if that was your intention.” Each soldier gazed at her, and for the first time, their stony gazes wavered.

  “Princess,” Dara hissed.

  “I am not a soldier,” Polya continued, speaking to
Dara, her soldiers, and the ones with Lukas. “I don’t know what it is to be part of a brotherhood, but I do know what it is to have a family. I know what it is to love someone more than I care about the law of Konstantin.”

  The strangers relaxed, some of them even offering her a smile.

  “So I wonder, why are you here instead of with your families?” she asked.

  “Come with us.” Lukas stepped closer to her. “Let me explain the way things are.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.” One footfall backward kept the distance between them.

  “No,” Dara reiterated, “she is not. You can explain why you are here, and why these men tried to murder us.”

  “It’s not murder!” someone cried. “We’re protecting ourselves.”

  “They didn’t know who you were,” Lukas hedged.

  Polya put a hand on her hip. “You hardly gave us time to make proper introductions.” Someone laughed, and then another person. Polya’s joke put them at ease, and some even lowered their weapons.

  “If you won’t come to us, we will gather our company and come to you.” Lukas lowered his head, peering at Polya from under his lashes.

  Dara shook his head. “No more soldiers,” he said. “I won’t be outnumbered.”

  “The company is not just made-up of soldiers,” Lukas corrected. “It is also their families.”

  Polya pictured the townspeople of Vaskova. All those seemingly friendly grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts and uncles, who smiled at her until she accused them of murder and then glared with hate-filled eyes.

  Lukas sighed.

  Behind him, a soldier placed his rifle on the ground and held up his hands. “May I approach?”

  Dara nodded at one of his soldiers, who patted the man down, relieving him of a knife before he was allowed near Polya. “I know what happened in Vaskova, and I can assure you—” The man glanced at Lukas. “We had no part in it.”

  The man’s words prompted Lukas to speak, “If I could go back in time, Your Highness, I would.”

  Polya ignored him, her attention fixed on the man in front of her. “Let me and my soldiers continue on our way. Whatever it is you’re doing, I would suggest you remain hidden, and not bring more attention to yourself by attacking strangers traveling through the woods.”