Moving fast, she grabbed the blankets and threw them to the floor before sliding after them and pulling Anatoliy with her. The ground was covered with canvas, but it was still cold. Without letting go of his hand, Polya spread out the blanket, shimmying onto it.
Anatoliy unbuttoned his coat, and held it open, wordlessly encouraging her to lie down next to him. She did, scooting closer to him to pillow her head on his arm. Her tail wrapped around his wrist when he embraced her, and she sighed.
“You’re not as warm as you used to be,” she mused, “but this is nice.”
Anatoliy lifted his head and kissed her neck, breathing in her scent. She smelled like the forest and snow. Polya cupped his neck with her hand, twisting beneath him to press her lips to his before settling back on his arm.
“I love you,” she whispered, and his heart ached.
“I love you, tiger girl.”
“Anatoliy!”
Anatoliy searched the crowded square. He’d gone to sleep with Polya wrapped in his arms, and awoken in Misurka Square. The crowd jostled him from every side, spinning him with each shoulder or elbow.
Far off in the distance, bombs exploded, sending up smoke and ash into the air. The people around him screamed, and he spun faster, searching. “Polya!”
As if by magic, the crowd parted. The world seemed to slow, until all around him was chaos without sound. It was no less frantic, but it faded into the background.
Ahead of him on a raised dais, Polya stood with hands clasped in front of her. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she stared at the two people kneeling next to her. Around her neck, someone had placed a collar, and when she tried to go to them, she was jerked backward.
Anatoliy growled, low and long, and started. No! He was a man!
But when he glanced down, he saw fur covered paws, and when he looked up, his vision narrowed.
A bear. He was a bear.
“Anatoliy!”
Polya’s wild blue eyes sought him out, and he roared, surging forward.
“Choose,” an oily voice demanded, and Polya’s head jerked back. He followed the line of the collar, along a rope, to the white hand holding it.
Father Stepan.
The priest smiled, black rotted teeth in a hollow face. Slowly, as if he was ink dripping down a sheet of paper, his image smudged, changed.
In his place stood a man he’d never seen. Tall, lean like a whip. Handsome. But when he smiled, his teeth were sharp, like daggers.
“Choose,” the voice said, this time deeper. It seemed to reverberate across the square, echoing along the cobblestones to chime like bells in Anatoliy’s ears.
Now Anatoliy knelt as well, beside him was Pytor, and a woman who must be Polya’s mother. She was as beautiful as Polya, except colder somehow. She stared ahead of her like no one else existed, like she was watching an opera and not about to die.
The barrel of a gun appeared in front of his face, and Anatoliy stared at the black abyss of the muzzle.
“Choose who lives. There is always a price for a wish, Princess. Who lives? Who dies?”
“It’s all right,” Anatoliy forced himself to say. “Polya. It will be all right.”
A crack of thunder jolted Anatoliy awake, and he gasped.
Polya slept, body aligned with his, and she jerked when he moved. She sat up like a shot, and looked around wildly. “What was that?”
“Thunder,” he answered, mind still muddled from his dream, but then he heard it again and leapt to his feet. “Not thunder. Guns.”
“Kapetan!” Dara’s low voice came through the tent before he pushed the material aside and stepped inside.
“Who is shooting?” he asked.
“It comes from the forest, and is directed at the village,” Dara answered.
“Not us,” Anatoliy asked, though he didn’t expect one of the soldiers under his command would take it upon himself to begin firing at innocent civilians.
“No,” Dara answered. “Little Marat and Lev have scouted the area. I am readying the camp to move.”
“Get a unit of men ready, Dara,” he said.
“Anatoliy,” Polya interrupted. “We came across villagers and soldiers, all of them armed. They’d murdered the noblemen of their town. It was larger than this one.”
The town ahead of them was nothing but a sleepy farming hamlet. The fact that it had a telegraph made it significant, but there was nothing about it that set it apart. Why fire upon it?
Behind Dara, a gust of icy wind blew through the displaced flap and Pytor and Evgeny entered. Anatoliy didn’t miss the way Pytor’s gaze went first to his daughter. Then, as if drawn like a magnet, he eyed the heap of blankets on the ground and clenched his teeth together before turning his attention to Anatoliy. “Kapetan. The village is under attack.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he answered, aware of Polya at his shoulder, hand grasping his elbow. “We are aware. Dara has sent scouts to ascertain their position and when they return, we will decide our next steps.”
Anatoliy gestured toward the flap and they went outside. The snow was falling fast, thick clumps of snow that would hide their trail and the sounds of their movement. Luck was with them it would seem.
Around them, the soldiers began the process of dissembling tents and readying the camp to move. Anatoliy did a quick head count of the soldiers and his unit. Boris directed the site clean-up. When he was done, there would be no sign of their presence.
The soldiers around them paused, making way for Lev and Little Marat who hurried to them. “Kapetan. There is a group of men, civilians and soldiers, firing heavy field guns.”
Anatoliy fought to keep the shock off his face. Such guns were too heavy to be dragged by soldiers. The shells alone weighed upward of sixty pounds. “How did they maneuver those weapons through the forest?”
“Horses and sleds,” Little Marat answered, spitting on the ground next to them.
“How many men?” Anatoliy asked.
“Fifty,” Lev answered.
Fifty men to attack a farm community. It made no sense. The weapons Lev and Marat had identified were massive, heavy ordnance. There was no reason to use weapons of that power when the worst thing the village could drum up would be pitchforks and the odd musket.
“We must return fire,” Evgeny replied, angrily. “We have many more men, and are light on our feet. Such a crime demands quick action.”
Anatoliy did not disagree. It went against every code a soldier had to fire on innocent civilians.
Except when ordered. Had he not been a weapon wielded against civilians? As if Polya could read his mind, she squeezed his elbow. “Did you recognize the men?”
Lev and Marat nodded. “Lukas, the man from the village. Most are civilians, but some are soldiers. It must be how they got the weapons.”
“Dara, take fifteen soldiers to lay a covering fire. I’m going to take the rest of the squad to engage the attackers. Lev and Little Marat will go to the village and help people escape, or provide aid to the wounded.”
“I’ll go with them,” Polya said, and he shook his head. “Yes,” she repeated, moving in front of him to hold his stare. “I will.”
“I’ll go with Polya as well,” Pytor said. “I can provide first aid, unless you want me to go with you?”
Anatoliy had seen Pytor in a fight and knew he was competent. More than competent, he was efficient, and he didn’t lose his head. If Polya was going into the village, her father would protect her.
“I will go as well,” Evgeny stated. No. Evgeny was an unknown in a firefight. As if the prince could read his mind, he went on, “I will stay back, and once the way is clear, I will enter.”
Anatoliy could agree to that. “Very well. Do you have a weapon?” he asked Polya, cupping her soft cheek in his hand. Could he do this? Could he let her put herself in harm’s way?
Her blue eyes glittered, and she nodded. “I do.” Her voice was without a trace of fear. It was the right thing to do, for Polya to go int
o the village. She was competent and fierce, but until he had her back in his arms, his heart would be vulnerable, walking around outside of his chest.
He gave her a quick, hard kiss. “Be smart. Come back to me.”
“Always,” she whispered and stepped away, nodding at her father. “Ready?”
“Of course, mače.”
And just like that she was gone, a blur of blonde. Her orange and black tail swung like the clapper on a bell, the only color in the white and gray forest.
“Come on, Anatoliy,” Dara said.
In war there was only one way to cope with emotions, bury them. He took his love and worry—no—his terror—and stuffed it deep down inside him. He trusted Polya to be safe.
She was strong enough, and smart enough to come through this.
With a nod to Dara he shouldered his gun and took off into the driving snow.
16
Another Will Rise Up
Polya slowed, doubling back to make sure her father and the soldiers kept pace.
The soldiers were. Barely.
Not her father, though. He was only a few steps behind her. It surprised Polya. For some reason, she’d assumed he’d be in the back of the pack. Instead, he was leading.
“Need a rest, mače?” he asked.
“No,” she answered, slowing down.
His blue eyes considered her, and then he nodded before turning to the soldiers. “When we come to the village, I want every man to determine who to help first. We will be outnumbered, but our primary concern is giving aid to the civilians. If you feel the risk is too great, wait until covering fire is laid, then go in. Help those you can.”
The soldiers nodded, hanging on his words.
But so was Polya. This was the man she knew. The one who cared for her, who winked at her when her mother complained about her breaking trinkets. This was the man she could count on.
“Understand?” He glanced at her, waiting patiently, and she nodded.
“Yes.”
“What weapon do you have?” he asked, and she reached into her pocket to remove the dagger Dara had given her. For a moment, she considered giving him a flash of fang, but decided against it. Certainly, he remembered what she could do.
In front of them, a blast shook the ground, dislodging snow from the branches. It fell in a heap nearby, a soft thunk against the blanketed ground.
“Would you consider staying near me?” her father asked.
She studied him. Her instinct was to agree immediately, but she worried everything she saw was a ruse. What if he wanted her near him to assassinate someone? What if there was a larger plan at work of which she wasn’t aware?
He held her gaze, waiting patiently, and finally she cleared her throat. “Yes. I’ll stay near you.”
Letting out a breath, he smiled. “Good. Thank you.” He faced the men. “Ready?” he asked.
The blasts were coming so frequently they masked any other sound from the village. It struck Polya that there were no screams. Explosion after explosion rocketed through the forest, punctuated by the short staccato notes of machine gun fire.
If they found anyone alive, it would be a miracle.
The trees thinned, and Polya crouched low, following her father’s example. He held a pistol in his hand, scanning the parts of the village he could make out.
It was hard to identify it as a village anymore. Houses and barns had been blown apart. From her spot, Polya could make out the brown flank of a horse, lying in the snow. The animal was still—dead—and her chest burned with anger.
What a pointless waste of life!
There was no reason to destroy this village, murdering livestock and people.
“There.” Her father pointed across the village to the forest. Every so often a flash of fire shone through the trees and snow, and a second later, something exploded.
Polya growled, and his father frowned at her. “Anatoliy and his soldiers are surrounding the attackers, Polya. Let them.”
A flash of memory assaulted her. In Misurka Square, she’d asked her father to help the people injured by the anarchist’s bombs, and his gaze had been calculating. He’d done it to gain attention, not because his instinct had been to help.
What drove him to help now?
Next to the anger in her chest settled suspicion. Would she ever be able to see him without wondering at his motivation?
Near the horse, almost at his head, Polya spotted a small blond head poke up like a groundhog in a field before it ducked back down.
Someone was alive.
Polya didn’t wait, she acted.
“Polya!” her father shouted low, before suddenly stopping himself.
Wholly focused on the person in front of her, Polya barely heard his voice. The snow was littered with debris. She leapt over part of a wall and fence and skidded on the ice, finally coming to a stop next to the horse.
A boy, no more than nine or ten, hid behind the body of his horse. His wide brown eyes were glossy with tears.
“Hello,” Polya said stupidly. “I’m here to help you.”
He didn’t seem able to process her words, and jerked at the animal, trying to tug his leg from beneath its body. His movements were frantic and uncoordinated.
“I won’t hurt you,” Polya repeated, digging around the animal and his leg so he could drag it free. “I won’t hurt you.”
A moment later, her father appeared at their side. He knelt next to the boy. “It’s all right. We’ll help you.”
The boy sniffled, still tugging, but the cold and snow and fear seemed to be exhausting him. With a strong pull, Polya freed him, and fell backward, the boy between her legs.
Her father knelt near the boy’s leg.
“Is it broken?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. “I don’t think so. Can you get him to the woods?”
Polya nodded. The boy was slight, bony shouldered and long limbed, but there was no meat to him. She was strong enough to carry him.
From the woods, bullets flew, faster than before, as if whoever was there had spotted them and enraged, now sought to blow them to pieces as they had done the village.
“Hurry,” her father yelled, pushing the boy at her and lifting her under her shoulders at the same time.
Polya snarled, and took off, the boy slung in her arms like a baby. She leapt over the horse and the wall, running as fast as she could until she hit the tree line. There she settled the boy. “Wait here. Don’t move.”
Without waiting to see if he listened, she ran back to the village and her father, who had taken the boy’s position of safety behind the horse.
Past the protection of the trees, Polya was exposed. Bullets whizzed by her, so she ran faster, sliding across the ice to her father.
“You were supposed to stay with the boy,” he said through clenched teeth.
Polya ignored him, studying their surroundings. One wall remained upright, propped on a trough. They could make it if the shooting slowed, even for a moment.
As if the universe heard her thought, the shooting stopped before beginning again in earnest, though not at them. “The covering fire,” her father explained. “Go!”
He pushed her, and she fell, scrambling to her feet to dash to the wall. She landed, panting against it, jumping when her father landed just as hard next to her. “See anyone else?” he asked, breathless.
Polya squinted, examining the parts of the village she could see from their position. There were few buildings left, but on the far end of the village, the ancient church stood almost intact. The windows were blown out, and the steeple and onion dome shattered, but it looked promising. Sanctuary from the hellfire.
She glanced at her father, mouth open to explain, but his gaze was on the church, and he nodded slowly. “Yes.” He pointed, finger landing on the debris littering the village. “Go from one point of cover to the other. Anytime you have an open space, don’t run in a straight line. Understand?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“I’ll go first,” he said, and without another word, sprinted toward the church.
“Wait!” she yelled, watching in horror as her father jumped over a cow and tumbled into the snow. As he landed, bullets slammed into a destroyed barn behind him then in front of him. Breathless, he stood and ran again, the bullets hitting the snow behind him, throwing up mud and dirt.
Polya didn’t think. Instinct took over and she ran. “Go!” she yelled at him, right behind him as he zigzagged toward the church.
The doors were just there. Twenty feet. Ten. Five. Her father slammed against them, throwing them open. He hit the ground, and she fell on top of him. Her momentum kept her going, so she rolled and slammed into something hard.
Now she heard screams.
Papa held his hands up. “We’re here to help.” His voice was calm, though Polya saw a trickle of sweat roll off his temple onto the rough-hewn floor.
Slowly righting herself, Polya examined the occupants of the church. Most were women, though babies and small children crowded around their skirts. There were a few men, a couple of fathers who held their children in their arms.
Ten civilians, along with twice as many children. Were these the only survivors?
“What are you doing here?” a deep voice asked.
Polya scanned the group, seeking out the speaker and found the priest. Father Stepan? Her breath rushed out of her, but as he moved closer, she relaxed.
Bullets and bombs fell around her, but what had truly terrified her was the idea of encountering the evil man.
“We’re here to help. I have a squad of soldiers with me. We were camped and heard the shelling and gunfire,” Papa explained.
Behind them, another window shattered, shaking the building. Dust and plaster fell from the ceiling, and the children whimpered. The priest studied her father, and then turned his gaze on Polya.
Uncomfortable beneath his examination, she gripped her tail in her hands. “Is anyone hurt?” she asked, glancing away from the holy man to check on each person. They all appeared healthy, if dirty. As far as she could tell, there were no visible injuries.
Revolution and Rising Page 8
