by K L Conger
Under Nikolai’s direction, two Russian infantrymen picked Almas up and carried him off the field to where other prisoners of war were being held. Taras didn’t know what to think. He’d not been forced to kill Almas, but if the Russians wanted information from him, he’d be tortured for it.
Nikolai watched him, so Taras went to recover his ax. It was imbedded too deeply in the dead Tatar to be easily removed. Nikolai helped him after a look that said he was impressed with Taras’s kill.
Taras did not want to be separated from Nikolai the rest of the day. Hand to hand combat could be more easily survived when you had someone to watch your back. He glanced around, surveying the overall damage to the army.
“So many dead already.”
“They’re still coming.”
Taras turned toward the forest. Tatars spilled from its branches. The morning remained young, and there was much blood yet to be spilt.
He and Nikolai exchanged looks and unsheathed their swords. Together, they ran toward the oncoming tide of destruction.
Chapter 33
INGA SIGHED, LEANING heavily on a stack of trunks, and breathing as though she’d run a long distance. The sun had been out this morning, but disappeared long before noon. People said it disappeared when the bloody fighting on the plain of Arsk began. They said the sun could not bear to shine on the gory demise of so many young men, so it wrapped itself in clouds and hid its face from the shame of war.
Since noon, casualties from the battlefield had flooded in. As when the fire struck Moscow a year before, the servants set up a makeshift hospital to care for the sick and dying. In Moscow, Inga treated burn victims. It had been horrible. Now, Inga saw things she’d never imagined: severed limbs, insides on the outside, eyes hanging out from their faces by strange red and blue cords that were not meant to be seen.
Inga shuddered. Her smock was covered shoulders-to-knees in blood, none of it hers. She'd helped Yehvah in the tents all day and now stood outside the largest one, directing soldiers bringing more wounded. Yehvah wanted the wounded grouped by type of injury, and seemed adequate for now. If they kept coming in these numbers, however, it wouldn’t matter. They would need to be put anywhere she could find room.
Inga straightened as the next soldiers arrived—two men with another soldier held between them. The wounded man had blond hair and his head hung down on his chest while his feet dragged behind him. The two soldiers, tired as they were, struggled to hold him upright.
“We don’t know what’s wrong with him,” one of them said. “He’s bleeding from the back of his head, but he’s alive. He won’t wake, though.”
Inga gently pulled the soldier’s head back. His hair color and style looked close enough to Taras’s that she needed to be sure. This man had a narrower, gaunter face than Taras’s, however, and a jagged scar crossed his nose.
“Take him to the east tent,” she pointed. “The doctor will get to him in his turn.”
The two men nodded and headed for the tent she’d indicated, as another group approached. Four men approached, each holding one corner of a large litter made from a tent tied over four poles. It held three injured men. One was missing a leg. Another bled from the stomach and moaned in agony. The third had probably been alive when he left the battlefield. His eyes were fixed and lifeless. Inga instructed them on where to put these soldiers and turned to the next group.
Two soldiers holding an injured one between them walked slowly but steadily forward. It would take them a minute or so to reach her. She ought to walk out to meet them, but exhaustion made her limbs shaky. When she told her legs to move, they often didn’t.
Though it didn’t take long, the time spent waiting for the injured to reach her allowed a deep, cold pit of fear to settle in her stomach. All day, the fear had tried to invade. Inga threw it back, fighting her own private battle with doubt. She hadn't heard from Taras since he left his tent yesterday morning. The night she’d spent in his embrace felt safer than she’d ever felt in her life. Ironic, given that she slept hundreds of leagues from her home, and a scant mile from the den of a bloodthirsty enemy.
And now, he might be gone. Gone, before she knew it. He might have been killed in the first skirmish. The thought made her hands go cold and her arms tremble. A tide of tears rose in her throat so sharply that she couldn’t breathe. She turned her back to the oncoming wounded and placed a hand on her chest, forcing herself to breathe. After a few seconds, the panic receded. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the wounded soldiers.
Blood stained the torso of the wounded man in the middle. As Inga stared at him, he began convulsing. The man on his left had a hand on the wounded soldier’s neck.
“What . . . how is he?”
The man on the left lifted his hand and blood spurted out rhythmically. A devastating neck wound. The two carrying him stared at her silently, their eyes haunted. They wanted her—a woman and a servant—to give them answers. It was not something Russian soldiers would normally do.
Inga searched, unsure where to put the wounded man. He convulsed more violently and Inga stepped back. The man jerked back and forth in the grip of the two soldiers supporting him and turned limp, his mouth opening and his breath expiring.
Inga fought to keep her face still, despite the tide of tears and trying to break through.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the soldier who'd spoken before sounded contrite.
She shook her head. “Don’t be.” She was surprised at how even her voice sounded. “A pit—a mass grave has been dug around back, behind the hospital. Take him there. Lay him in as gently as you can.”
“I’ll take him,” the man said, then pointed to his fellow soldier on the other side of the dead man. “He’s hurt too.”
Inga peered at the other man.
“My leg, my lady.” Inga knelt to examine his leg, as the other man slung the corpse over his shoulder and staggered off. She wondered if either man realized they'd addressed her far above her station. The soldier had a bandage wrapped around his leg, directly above the knee. When she pulled it up, blood gushed out, but not before she noted a short, deep cut.
“You need to be stitched,” she said, replacing the bandage. “Go into the tent behind me. It won’t take long.”
“I don’t think I can walk without someone to lean on.” If she were allowed to leave her post, Inga would have helped him herself. Before she could look around for a solution, Yehvah’s authoritative voice came from behind her.
“You there, soldier. Help this man get to the tent. His leg is injured.” She hollered at a soldier who'd already brought in some wounded and was heading back out. He changed directions without complaint to help the man with the wounded leg.
“Inga. How are you doing?”
Inga stared at Yehvah, and Yehvah read the answer in her face. She looked sympathetic.
“I know it’s difficult. Everyone is struggling. I wanted to check on you.” She gazed toward the battlefield. An unending line of men marched toward them—all carrying wounded comrades—and the sky was darkening.
The man Yehvah called put his shoulder under the wounded man’s arm and they limped off together. Inga whirled and grabbed the wounded man’s arm before he could get far.
“Soldier. Please, tell me what the situation is on the battlefield.”
The man showed no emotion. Covered with dirt and blood, he looked ghoulish. “Do you not know, with all these casualties coming in?”
“I know we’ve lost many men,” Inga answered, aware of Yehvah looking at her quizzically. “Have the Tatars lost as many? How many of our men still stand?”
The man stared at her for a long time, and she wondered if he'd stopped breathing.
“We still have an army, but the battle did not go well today. We lost great chunks of the main force in front of the eastern gates. There are more Russian bodies than Tatar on the Plains of Arsk. The blood is ankle deep. It does not bode well for the coming months.” He stared at her for another minute, then
the two men limped toward the hospital.
Inga turned to face Yehvah, her back to the battlefield. An overwhelming sense of urgency weighed on her. She had to know. She had to, or she would go mad. She took a step backward. Yehvah’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Inga, no. Don’t . . .” She reached out a hand.
“Yehvah, I must. I’m sorry.” She continued stepping backward. Yehvah matched her step for step. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She turned her back on the hospital, but Yehvah grabbed her arm.
“Inga, you cannot walk out onto the battlefield. You could be killed.”
Inga did not try to stop the tears or suppress the thickness of her voice.
“I have to know. Please, Yehvah.” A sad comprehension entered the other woman’s eyes. They softened, and compassion, or perhaps empathy, entered Yehvah’s face. She nodded. She picked up a torn piece of dirt-caked tent fabric. At least it didn’t have blood on it. Yehvah threw it over Inga’s head, wrapping it around her to conceal her head and shoulders.
“Keep your head down. People are too distracted to notice you, but don’t draw attention to yourself. Our own soldiers could take advantage out there, simply to make themselves feel better. Move quickly. Don’t stop. Inga, if you cannot find him before dark, promise me you’ll return.”
Inga nodded, having no such intention. “I promise.”
Yehvah put her hand on Inga’s cheek. “Be careful.”
“I will be.”
Inga turned to go as more wounded soldiers were brought in. She got only a few paces before Yehvah’s voice once again caught her.
“Inga.” Inga turned. Then Yehvah did something rare. She glanced away, seeming uncertain, embarrassed even. Yehvah never displayed such emotions, but Inga could see tears swimming in her eyes.
Inga took a step toward Yehvah, wondering what brought this on. “Yes?”
“Will you look for Nikolai too?”
Inga should have been surprised. Somehow, she wasn’t. Yehvah’s words were like a drum, sounding a loud, final thump in Inga’s chest, confirming what she'd suspected for months now. Who was she to judge? She felt for Taras what Yehvah did for Nikolai. Suddenly she understood Yehvah as never before. A tear slid down Yehvah’s cheek.
Inga crossed the remaining distance between them and clasped her mother’s hands. For Yehvah was her mother, if anyone.
“I’ll find them both. I promise.”
Yehvah nodded. The bloodless bond between them became iron, and Inga felt the weight of it. They stared at one another for several more seconds before Inga pulled away and fled.
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 se
en 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.
