Revolution and Rising

by Ripley Proserpina

  “No. I’m Father Kirill.”

  “My name is Pytor, and this is my daughter, Polina.”

  Father Kirill bobbed his head in greeting and then froze, his gaze locked on Polya’s hands. She considered hiding her tail, but it would be pointless.

  “The princess…” his voice trailed off, and he crossed himself quickly. Around him, the villagers did the same. “Your Highness. We thought you were dead. Thank the Lord’s mercy, you survived. And came here. To help us.” He stared around the church in wonder, crossing himself again. “Thank God,” he whispered.

  Helplessly, she turned her gaze toward her father and then wished she hadn’t. The gleam was in his eyes again. What was he planning, calculating?

  But a second later it disappeared, and he shook his head. “My daughter lives. I am forever grateful she made it through the Hunt, and God blessed me despite my unworthiness.” He sounded sincere.

  She should be thinking about the villagers and how to get them to safety, not whether or not her father would twist this tragedy into an opportunity.

  “Our soldiers are surrounding your attackers. If we can hold on, there is hope this will all be over soon,” Papa explained.

  “And if not?” someone asked.

  “Then we pray and escape into the forest,” Papa answered dryly.

  Someone laughed, a quick bark of relief that caught on like wildfire. Soon the church was filled with hysterical giggles.

  As it died, Polya became aware of the quiet outside. There was only the wind, and an occasional groan and smash as buildings collapsed.

  She glanced at her father and he held up a finger. “Wait. They’ll find us.”

  Polya wasn’t sure she could wait. She could feel the villagers’ eyes on her, tracking her as she stood and walked toward a blown-out window to peer outside.

  For the first time in a long time, she wished for a bustle to cover her tail.

  To hide her discomfort, she stared outside, watching for any small motion that would give away the position of the villagers’ attackers, or show Anatoliy and his men had secured the area.

  A shot rang through the village, and she jumped, but it was the only one. Finally, she caught a flash of blue in the forest until one-by-one, the soldiers materialized.

  They marched a squad of men in front of them. Some wore civilian clothing, some uniforms of the king’s army, but it was clear from the way they held their hands on their heads, they were the attackers.

  “I think it’s safe now,” her father said from nearby.

  Without commenting, she hurried outside, scanning the men for Anatoliy.

  She found him, directing the prisoners to line up near a collapsed barn. His soldiers were searching them, removing daggers, knives, or pistols from their uniforms.

  He glanced up as she ran toward him. Quickly, he shifted his rifle to one hand and held out his arm, wrapping her against his chest. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice muffled by her hair.

  “Yes,” she answered. “We found villagers in the church, but haven’t searched the town for survivors yet.”

  “I’ll come with you. Dara?”

  Dara nodded. “Go. Take the men with medical training.” Turning, he pointed at three men. “Go with them.”

  Papa came down the steps of the church, the remaining villagers spilling out of the doors and into the snow. Someone gave a choked cry.

  Now that they’d survived, they had to face the destruction of their town. The people had lost everything. They had no livestock and no shelter. It was the beginning of Konstantin’s brutal winter, and these people were without options.

  “You have a telegraph,” she heard her father say as Anatoliy led her deeper into the town. “Perhaps it will be possible to get help.”

  It was unlikely, Polya realized, that the townspeople would be able to rebuild their village for the winter. The best they could hope for was to find distant relatives or friends willing to take them in until the spring. Even then, there was no guarantee they’d be able to return. They’d need money to build, and without livestock or crops, they had no collateral.

  “We need to search for livestock as well as people,” she said. “Perhaps some are left, and then we could stay a few weeks, help them rebuild.”

  Anatoliy, who’d been scanning the horizon, shook his head. “We’ll search for livestock, get them set up in the church. It’s the most we can do. Once we get to St. Svetleva, or to a telegraph, we can request additional support. But right now, we don’t have the supplies to support them, or ourselves, for an extended period of time.”

  It made her sick. “Perhaps we can bring them with us.”

  Anatoliy hesitated and met her gaze. “Perhaps.” He didn’t say “no,” and for that, Polya was grateful. It was hard enough to hear they must leave the village in ruins. “It will need careful planning. Lucky for us, my second in command was our supplies officer. He’ll be perfect for the job of rationing.”

  Polya smiled, but it was quickly wiped off her face as they passed one demolished building after another. At each habitation, they stopped, calling out. But no one answered.

  It seemed the only survivors were the ones in the church and the lone boy who’d hidden near his horse.

  The wind picked up, blowing a gust of burning wood and flesh across her face, and her stomach tightened with nausea.

  They came to a farm. One that, at first, appeared to be intact. The front door stood open, but as she moved closer, Polya could see the entire back end of the structure had been blown apart. Snow blew into the house, through the door, and across the floor.

  “There?” she asked Anatoliy, and he nodded.

  “Hello!” he called, pausing. The medics exchanged a glance, but waited quietly.

  “Help!” someone cried. It wasn’t coming from the house, but from the nearby collapsed barn. “Help!”

  Anatoliy ran with Polya and the medics fast on his heels.

  “Help me!” the person cried again, louder and more frantic.

  The voice seemed to be coming from behind the barn, close to the woods where a pen had held a trio of cattle, all dead and smoldering.

  Anatoliy rounded the side of the barn, hurtling over a mass of charred wood before sliding to a stop. “Polya, stop!” he yelled, but it was too late.

  In front of them stood a man. One she knew.

  It was Lukas, from the village of Vaskova. His eyes widened, and then narrowed when he saw her, but her eyes were glued on the grenade in his hand. He held it loosely, thumb holding the pin that, when released, would mean their death.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Why?”

  “You don’t understand revolution, Your Highness.” Lukas’s tone would have been sad, if it hadn’t held so much hardness. “We have to rise up. We have no choice.”

  “They are innocent,” she replied. “They’re just civilians.”

  “Who housed and fed the king’s soldiers,” Lukas cut in. “There is one side to support in this battle, and it is not the king. I wish you understood.”

  Next to her, Anatoliy shifted, adjusting his grip on his rifle. Lukas held out the grenade, a taunt, and shook his head. “I will drop this and take us all to the next life, traitor. Thank the princess you continue to live. It is only her appearance that keeps you alive.”

  Polya risked a glance at Anatoliy. His face was white except for two spots of color on his cheekbones, and his jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek jumping.

  “Let her leave,” Anatoliy said.

  “She keeps you alive,” Lukas stated. “There is nothing that keeps me from killing you without her here.”

  Lukas pinned her with his stare, tilting his head as he considered her. “Come with me, Your Highness.”

  She frowned. “No.” Why would she go with him? To watch him murder more innocent people? No.

  “Come with me, or they die,” he explained. “You all die. I drop this at my feet, and you cease to be.”

  “So
do you,” she replied. “What about your revolution?”

  “Others will rise in my place. But if I have you… I wonder what it would mean.” His eyes got a faraway look she’d seen before. It was reminiscent of King Aleksandr.

  Or her father.

  Polya growled, low and long. She wouldn’t be a puppet again. She wasn’t at anyone’s mercy.

  Lukas yelped, startled, and Polya tracked his movements. She didn’t even realize she was moving until he feinted to one side, and she followed.

  “I’ll drop it!” he yelled, his voice a little shrill.

  His words only made her snarl.

  “Polya, careful,” Anatoliy said, but he didn’t call her back or yell.

  A gun went off. The shot pierced the air, and Lukas, already twitching, threw the grenade toward them. Polya leapt back, all of her focus switching from Lukas to Anatoliy.

  It was headed right for him.

  She’d felt something like this before. During the Hunt, the avalanche had smashed into her with the force of a thousand horses. The wave of power that hit her now was similar, except it was all air and dirt and fire.

  Her shoulder caught Anatoliy’s, knocking him off his feet and spinning him around so she landed on top of him. A spray of dirt covered her, sticking to her face and landing in her mouth.

  She felt heat and smelled burning wool. Her neck stung, but she ignored it. All that mattered was Anatoliy, and holding him close to protect him.

  Her fingers dug into his wool coat as she pressed herself into his back. She lay there, stunned and gasping as the world came back into focus.

  Her head was fuzzy, and her ears rang. She shook her head, but it didn’t get rid of the muddled sensation. Beneath her, Anatoliy pressed his hands into the ground, dislodging her so he could roll over.

  His gaze swept over her, and then, wide-eyed, he sat up quickly. He gripped Polya’s shoulders, tugging her into his chest and began slapping her back.

  It hurt. “Stop,” she said, but cotton filled her mouth. Her tongue was heavy and uncoordinated, and she could barely get out the command.

  His mouth opened, yelling, but the ringing in her ears masked what he was saying. All the while he patted her back, yelling at someone behind her, or near her.

  “You’re not hurt?” she asked. Dirty, but unharmed, he cupped her face, saying something she couldn’t hear, and she lifted her hands to cover his.

  The wind blew, and it was so cold she swayed where she sat. It seemed to have gotten stronger.

  “Is a storm coming?” she asked, and then lost her balance. Which was strange, because she thought she’d been seated on the ground. Maybe she’d landed in a hole.

  Glancing down, all Polya saw was mud and snow. When she looked up, the world tilted, and she fell.

  But Anatoliy caught her.

  His face was white now, blue eyes scared. She wanted to touch him to say, “It’s all right,” but her hand wouldn’t work right. In fact, nothing felt right, and she was so tired.

  Polya closed her eyes. She’d just rest a moment, and then she’d be fine.

  17

  Anatoliy Wouldn’t Be As Brave

  Polya’s green wool coat smoldered, and her hair, her beautiful golden hair, was a blackened matted mass.

  Anatoliy had been helpless to do anything. Shoot the man and he dropped the grenade. Don’t shoot him and he dropped the grenade.

  His indecision had resulted in this.

  This!

  It took everything Anatoliy had not to scream or tear his hair. “Medic!”

  “You’re not hurt?” she asked him, and he couldn’t answer.

  The only thing that went through his mind was, no, no. Help. Please. No.

  “Medic!” he yelled again, searching wildly for the medics who’d been caught in the blast with him. If they’d been hurt as well…

  Polya swayed, and he caught her, holding her face and studying her. “You’re going to be fine,” he said and yelled again, screamed, even. “Medic!”

  “Is a storm coming?” she asked. Her blue eyes rolled back in her head, and her body went limp. Anatoliy caught her, keeping her from landing back in the mud. She lay over his arms, and he forced himself to his feet.

  Frantically he searched for help. “Medic! God dammit! Medic!”

  “Here!” A mud-splattered, bloody soldier, not one he recognized, scrambled across the farmyard toward him, slipping and sliding in the snow. “Here!”

  “Help,” Anatoliy choked out, stumbling toward him. The medic reached them, and his face hardened. His gaze swept the farmyard, and he pointed to a collapsed wall.

  “There.”

  Somehow he managed to get there, but as soon as he placed Polya carefully on the wood and the medic turned her over, his knees gave out.

  Her back was burned, shredded. The skin was black in places, like the wool and cotton had melted right to her skin. Some places were merely red, but in others, her left shoulder, he could make out small pieces of metal embedded in the skin.

  “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no. Polya, no.” He hadn’t found her for this to happen. Why hadn’t he fought her harder? Made her stay?

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” the medic ground out, using his field knife to rip her coat away from her body. “We need to stop the worst of the bleeding, and when we get her to camp, we’ll deal with the rest.”

  The bleeding? How could he even make out the bleeding apart from the burn?

  Rummaging in his bag, the medic pulled out field dressings and a flask. He poured the liquid on Polya’s shoulder and there, on the meaty part below her neck, was an inch deep gash. Immediately after being cleaned, it welled with blood again, pouring out of the wound to drip down her spine. The medic pressed the dressing against the wound, packing it inside, and Anatoliy shut his eyes.

  It was not the worst wound he’d seen, but this was Polya. The burns, the shrapnel, the wounds. He began cataloguing possible injuries, concussive trauma, internal wounds he could not see.

  “Can you lift her?” the medic asked.

  “Her back,” Anatoliy got out.

  “Carry her over your shoulders. It is the best we can do for now. The camp isn’t far.”

  His matter-of-factness, the quick list of things Anatoliy had to accomplish, got him moving. Gently, he lifted Polya over his shoulders. As he did so, he recalled suddenly books he’d read as a child, and illustrations he’d seen of ancient gods as they carried off maidens who’d taken their fancy.

  Moving swiftly but carefully, Anatoliy headed into the village.

  “Anatoliy!” Prince Pytor’s voice carried to him, but he didn’t slow.

  “What happened?” Pytor asked. He hurried next to Anatoliy, keeping pace as he trekked to camp.

  “Bomb,” Anatoliy answered through gritted teeth.

  Pytor stumbled, pausing. He imagined the prince, behind them now, could see the extent of Polya’s wounds. “Good God,” he whispered. “We can’t treat her out here. Kapetan. This injury is too severe for—”

  “Stop!” Anatoliy growled. She would be fine. She had to be fine. If she was not… He wouldn’t let himself consider the outcome.

  The medic, who’d reassured him earlier, now kept his mouth closed, and for that, Anatoliy was grateful. He couldn’t listen to any more platitudes.

  Earlier, the camp had been broken down, but now, in preparation for injuries, a tent stood ready. There was no doctor as far as Anatoliy knew, only the medic who followed him, and the two others, who either were dead or remained in the village.

  The medic pushed the flap aside, dropped his pack and began the quick process of lighting lamps.

  “Face down.” He gestured over his shoulder to a waist high cot, one of three set out for the injured. “Leave the clothing. I’ll need to scrape it off.”

  “Scrape?” Pytor asked.

  Anatoliy had forgotten about him. Pytor moved closer to Polya, and he swallowed a growl. “I need room please, sir.”

 
; There was no room for politeness and acquiescence here, and for that, Anatoliy was grateful. The medic was calm and abrupt, but his demeanor transmitted confidence.

  “Sit,” he said suddenly, jerking his elbow toward a stool. “Put your head between your legs before you faint.”

  Anatoliy glanced at Pytor, who merely lifted an eyebrow.

  Him?

  As soon as the idea occurred to him, Anatoliy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and the room spun.

  “Sit, Kapetan.” Pytor touched his shoulder, pushing him toward the chair. “Anatoliy. Sit.”

  He couldn’t. He needed to be with her. Right there. Next to her in case she opened her eyes and was afraid.

  “Sit,” Pytor said again. “She sleeps.”

  Her father crept closer. Far enough away he wouldn’t block the light, but close enough he could see what the medic saw.

  When Anatoliy was finally able to look up, he kept his gaze trained on Pytor’s face or Polya’s profile.

  The prince’s gaze remained steady, only once did he blanch, but otherwise, he stood straight-backed.

  The medic finished Polya’s back and peeled the rest of her clothing down her arms, finally placing a sheet across her upper body. Anatoliy stood at once, strode toward her and took her hand in his where it rested near her face.

  “We’ll have to figure something else out. We need a place she can be made warm and comfortable,” the medic contemplated.

  “When will we be able to move her?” Pytor asked, and Anatoliy glared at him.

  “Look at her. She needs to heal!”

  “And she needs a place to do it. We can’t keep her here, in a tent, in the cold, Anatoliy! If the burns don’t kill her, the cold will.” Pytor’s words were a whip across Anatoliy’s skin. He could feel it, a physical blow.

  No. She was all right now. The medic had said so, hadn’t he? Anatoliy glanced at the medic who was staring at Polya with a worried look. All throughout his treatment his face had been stoic, unreadable, but something about the prince’s words upset him.

  “He’s right,” the medic said, hazarding a glance at Anatoliy. “I’m sorry, Kapetan. He’s right. We need to fashion a stretcher, something to carry her with. I’m loathe to cover the injuries, but she’ll freeze to death. Already the men wear their coats to sleep. Winter is here, Kapetan.”