by K L Conger
So far, so good. She reached up, found another handhold, and then placed her foot. She leaned her weight on it...and fell through the wooden bridge. It crumbled to ashes below her and she fell all the way through to the ground. Heat whooshed out, scorching her arm and the side of her face.
Inga staggered backward, tripping over debris until she sat on her backside in the street, exactly where she’d begun. An ominous creaking noise came from above and Inga crawled backward as quickly as possible. The bridge sat on the street, so she didn’t know how it could fall again, but it certainly sounded like something might come down.
A moment later, another structure, burning hotter than the bridge had, crashed to the ground exactly where Inga had sat only moments before. This one had enough flames that she didn’t dare try to climb it. She’d learned her lesson. She couldn’t gauge the integrity of a structure simply by looking at it. Helping Anne and Ekaterina would be impossible if she lay dead or maimed somewhere.
She doubled back yet again to find another route.
As she moved away from the Kremlin and especially the southern parts of the city, the air cleared by degrees and she both saw and breathed easier.
The fire began in midmorning and took perhaps three hours to ravage the city before burning out. By the time Inga reached the northern suburbs, the afternoon shadows lengthened. Evening came on quickly.
To her great surprise, the northern suburbs seemed...empty. Of people at least. The Muscovites proved correct. It hadn’t been burnt. Most structures still stood, and little smoke filled the air. Inga could even see sky and take a relatively fresh breath. Yet she saw no people, no movement, no bustle of bodies. She heard no hum of voices. Inga saw no sign of refugees whatsoever. The northern suburbs were still and silent. Too silent. Not even ghosts moved here.
Inga could only surmise the refugees who came here hid themselves in some other part of the city than she currently resided. She would simply have to search until she found them.
Exhaustion crept up on her, but she viciously suppressed it. With determination, she began her search, glancing into every building, shop, church, and home she came across, praying for Anne and Ekaterina’s safety.
NIKOLAI DUG HIS HEELS into his horse’s flanks, urging it from a trot to a canter. An order had come down from the Tsar and landed on Nikolai’s shoulders. An urgent message for General Vorotynsky.
The fire mostly demolished the city, and one would think there would be room enough for the horse to gallop. There wasn’t. The charred remains of buildings, furniture, and even the burnt corpses of animals lay everywhere. In many places, enormous timbers completely blocked the road, which Nikolai’s horse either leapt over or Nikolai himself ducked under, depending on the situation.
The war-trained horse proved skillful at keeping its feet. It adapted well to the changing obstacles and, in truth, Nikolai made good time. Still, he’d been late delivering this message before he’d even received it.
Luckily, almost no one remained in this burnt out part of the city, so he didn’t have to worry about trampling survivors.
Nikolai finally left the city walls and headed for Vorotynsky’s encampment. From what Nikolai understood, Vorotynsky had received the news that Devlet-Guirey forded the river and understood his own position on the Oka had been rendered useless in Moscow’s defense. He’d immediately brought his troops around to defend the city.
In truth, he hadn’t arrived in time. The fire burnt out and the Tatars moved on before Vorotynsky reached the walls.
Devlet-Guirey could easily have looted the city. Nikolai, along with all the other generals, fully expected him to. For some reason, he’d simply turned and headed East instead, and no one understood why. Not that it mattered. At least the Tatars left.
Ivan received the news in Alexandrovskaya Sloboda and sent the order for Vorotynsky to follow Devlet-Guirey. Not a particularly logical move in Nikolai’s mind, but he’d been told in no uncertain terms that the Tsar’s orders must be followed.
As Vorotynsky’s armies came into view, Nikolai waved the small royal crest above his head. Most of the soldiers would recognize his uniform anyway, but the crest showed he came on business from the Tsar.
He kept his horse at a canter until he approached the camp. Soldiers looked up and straightened beside cook fires, many of them taking a few unconscious steps toward him as he arrived. Most recognized him as a general, bowing their heads respectfully as he passed. A few even took a knee.
An officer Nikolai recognized as a general’s aid met him at the camp’s entrance. Clapping a hand to his chest, the aid bowed.
“I have a message from Ivan Grozny, Supreme Tsar of Russia, for General Vorotynsky,” he said formally.
The aid, whose overly bulbous nose made everything else about him less noticeable, carried more bulk than most soldiers. He inclined a head of brown hair. “I see you, Lord Petrov. Please, come with me. I’ll take you to the General.”
Nikolai handed his horse’s reins to a groom who came forward to take them and followed the aid through the camp. Being a soldier himself, the camp’s layout felt utterly familiar. Nikolai marveled at how few men Vorotynsky held at his disposal. The general hadn’t gotten the chance to engage the Tatars in battle. A good thing. Vorotynsky’s force would have been crushed. His numbers could not have stood up against Devlet-Guirey’s.
Vorotynsky’s dark hair and long, fanning beard looked fastidiously groomed. He sat behind a table at the middle of the camp in the open air. No tent surrounded the table he sat behind, which held a slew of parchments and jars. Nikolai thought there must be some unwritten rule somewhere that all senior generals must keep a desk somewhere littered with maps of Russia and heavy ink jars to hold the corners down.
As Nikolai approached, Vorotysky gazed up at him with intelligent brown eyes. He stood and came around the table, extending an arm toward Nikolai.
“It has been a long time, Nikolai.”
Nikolai grasped the general’s arm. He and Vorotynsky weren’t close enough to call one another friends, but they’d fought on more than one campaign together. In fact, Vorotynsky took the first tower of Arsk during the siege of Khazan. Nikolai knew him to be a man of honor and an excellent soldier. If Nikolai were on the battlefield, he wouldn’t trust any commander more.
“It’s good to see you as well, sir. I carry a message from the Tsar.”
“Please,” Vorotynsky motioned impatiently. “Deliver it.”
Nikolai nodded. “The Tsar commands you to pursue Devlet-Guirey’s army as he retreats. He wants you to mete out justice against them for the burning of Moscow.”
Vorotynsky frowned. “Does the Tsar not understand the situation? We’ve only arrived this minute. Devlet-Guirey’s head start ensures we won’t catch him before he reaches the borders of his own country.”
Nikolai gave him a sympathetic look. He wanted to say more but glanced around first. A ring of soldiers surrounded Nikolai and the general, all paying rapt attention to their conversation.
Vorotynsky followed Nikolai’s gaze and seemed to understand the hesitation. He raised his voice. “Back to your duties. Leave lord Nikolai and I to speak privately.” The soldiers quickly melted away.
He and Vorotynsky hardly stood alone. Anyone glancing in their direction would see them clearly, but no one stood within hearing range anymore.
“I understand, General. This course of action makes little sense to me, not least because your numbers don’t come close to rivaling Devlet-Guirey’s. Even if you catch him, the chances of besting such superior numbers are nearly non-existent, if you’ll forgive me. Yet, this is what the Tsar commands.”
Nikolai expected Vorotynsky to take offense or at least look grim at the prospect of an impossible mission. Yet, the moment he mentioned Vorotynsky’s inferior numbers, the man’s eyebrows jumped, as though something occurred to him.
“Indeed,” the general murmured. “Perhaps my time has come at last.”
Nikolai struggled to
discern the meaning. “My lord?”
The general glanced up at Nikolai in surprise, as though he’d forgotten he still stood there. “Nothing. Forgive me, Nikolai. I will do as the Tsar commands.”
A strange response, but not truly Nikolai’s business. Besides, he felt eager to return to the palace. He inclined his head to Vorotynsky. “God be with you.”
MIKHAIL VOROTYNSKY stood on the banks of the Oka, staring into its swirling waters. The Tsar commanded he give chase to the Tatars, and chase he did. While many of Devlet-Guirey’s army headed north, into Siberia, with what his scouts reported as thousands of captives, the Tatar general himself had headed in a different direction.
Much as Vorotynsky wished to follow the captives and bring back as many as possible, the Tsar commanded he follow Devlet-Guirey himself. Capturing the Tatar commander would be more important for Moscow’s security than the return of the captives anyway. A harsh reality, but a reality nonetheless.
Vorotynsky wasn’t entirely sure why Devlet-Guirey chose this direction, but he respected the man’s military prowess. It was only smart to break up his forces, sending them in different directions so the Russians couldn’t hope to follow them all.
Darkness fell before Vorotynsky reached the banks of the Oka. He dared not cross it with his men in the dark.
If he waited until morning to ford the river, he’d be giving the Tatar general an even greater head start. Yet, Vorotynsky didn’t believe Devlet Guirey would travel all night. Treacherous terrain lay on the other side of this river, and no moon shone down. Vorotynsky glanced upward, realizing he didn’t know if that was true. After today’s events, he didn’t remember what part of the lunar cycle they’d reached. Perhaps no moon hung in the sky tonight. Or perhaps the smoke rising from Moscow simply hid it from view.
Either way, he refused to risk his men’s lives in so dangerous an expedition as to attempt to cross the swirling Oka, when he held so little hope of catching Devlet-Guirey anyway. Its dark water swept by entirely too swiftly. The largest tributary of the Volga, it flowed southwest from its mother river, running down the East side of Moscow.
To know the Volga was to know Russia, or so the adage said.
Vorotynsky knew the Volga better than most. He knew the Oka and the Moskva as well. He wished desperately they’d arrived at the ford before the sun sank in the west. If he could have crossed the river, he’d have pushed his men all night, fallen upon Devlet-Guirey’s camp, wherever he built it, and taken them unawares before dawn. It might have been the perfect opportunity for Mikhail to prove his loyalty to Ivan and Russia.
Apparently, God did not want it so.
NIKOLAI STRODE THROUGH the courtyard of the Terem Palace as darkness fell, heading for the kitchens. He’d searched for Yehvah for an hour. Considering the events of the past few days, and especially without Inga, Anne, and Ekaterina to help her, Yehvah’s workload had quadrupled. She practically ran laps around the palace.
Nikolai knew Yehvah felt terror for her missing maids. To cope, she threw herself into her work with abandon. Admirable perhaps, yet Nikolai wished she wouldn’t. She’d end up exhausting herself. Still, he didn’t have the heart to ask her to slow down. Her panic and heartache would only increase if she did.
He strolled into the kitchens through the outer door and immediately lunged sideways to avoid a page sprinting toward the exit. His sideways movement put him in the path of a hurtling projectile—a wooden cup, he thought, most likely aimed at the wash bucket—and he ducked to keep from taking it in the face.
Bogdan, chopping a root Nikolai didn’t recognize so fast Nikolai barely saw it, glanced up without pausing or offering apologies. “Something you need, my lord?” he asked, the tiniest inflection of annoyance in his voice.
Nikolai opened his mouth to answer, but paused, distracted by all the movement around him. The kitchens positively buzzed with action. Every kitchen boy under Bogdan’s tutelage—and perhaps a few extras—flew around the space in a flurry of sweat and crockery.
“I’m looking for Yehvah,” he managed.
“I believe she’s down in the East wing,” Bogdan said, turning toward the fire and dumping handfuls of his root into a small, black cauldron suspended above the flames. The sound of bubbling water emanated from it.
Nikolai winced at Bogdan’s answer. He couldn’t put blame on the man, though. For the past hour, every time he asked someone for Yehvah’s whereabouts, they gave him a location somewhere in the palace. Inevitably, when he arrived there, it either stood completely empty or someone there told him she’d already been and gone.
He truly didn’t believe people lied or even made mistakes. Rather, Yehvah moved so swiftly from task to task, Nikolai simply couldn’t catch up with her.
Murmuring his thanks to Bogdan, Nikolai threaded his way carefully through the kitchens, dodging a few more wooden dishes and hopping over or out of the way for a few more sprinting kitchen apprentices, before making it, with relief, into the corridor.
He stalked through the hallway in the general direction of the East wing, meandering in wide arcs and other detours along the way. He’d already checked the East wing twice in the past hour, so he didn’t truly expect Yehvah to be there.
The palace remained in an uproar since news of Devlet-Guirey’s attack arrived. Ivan fled to Alexandrovskaya Sloboda for his own safety. Plenty of people—from servants to boyars—remained in the palace, all in a panic.
Nikolai moved off again, approaching an intersection of corridors. When he peered down the corridor to the left, a figure entered his periphery on the right. He collided with it before turning his head, nearly knocking Yehvah to the ground.
His hands lanced out to grasp her upper arms and keep her on her feet. Only then did he look into her face, and concern bloomed in his chest. He slid his arms up her arms to her shoulders. “Yehvah, are you all right?”
Her face looked haggard. Dark circles nested under her eyes and the lines around her mouth appeared more pronounced than usual. Her platok sat askew and more of her white hair than she generally cared to reveal in public peeked out from under it. Even her stature bespoke exhaustion. She leaned slightly to one side, favoring her bad leg, as though she simply couldn’t straighten.
“Perhaps you should sit down,” Nikolai said gravely.
Yehvah immediately shook her head, avoiding his eye. “I’ve too much work to do.” She attempted to step around him.
Nikolai held her fast. “If you don’t take a break, you’re going to pass out,” he said firmly. “You won’t be able to work or help the survivors then, will you?”
Yehvah glanced up at him briefly, then away again. “If I stop now, who will do the work?” she muttered.
“You must have twenty younger maids under your stewardship—”
“All of them are busy working as hard as I am, Nikolai,” she said, jutting her chin out stubbornly.
Nikolai heaved a sigh. “Very well, but at least slow down. You can’t keep up this pace. There must be days of work ahead. Slow and steady is wiser.”
She hesitated a moment before giving him a quick bob of the head, though the stubborn set of her jaw said she didn’t intend to slow down. “Any news of Inga, or Anne? Ekaterina?”
She gazed fully into his face for the first time, and the hope there broke his heart. He slowly shook his head. “None. And night is falling.”
He studied her face as she attempted to take the news in stride. Her features smoothed almost unnaturally. It looked utterly forced. The next instant, her expression froze, and crumbled. She hunched her shoulders, dropped her face into her hands, and sobbed.
Nikolai stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to one side of the corridor. Though they stood alone for the moment in this part of the palace, anyone who entered it would see them immediately. Still, it felt marginally more private to stand by the wall than in the center of the hallway.
“Please, please Nikolai,” Yehvah sobbed into his shoulder. “You
have to find her. What if she’s hurt? I can’t stand the thought of her being alone out there. Of any of them.”
No doubt the ‘she’ Yehvah spoke of first was Inga. While she cared for the other two, she loved Inga like a daughter.
Nikolai made a hushing sound while stroking Yehvah’s hair. “Don’t worry. Inga is capable, thanks to you. If she still lives—" Yehvah winced as though he’d slapped her “—she will manage until she can make her way back to you.”
Despite her reaction, Nikolai didn’t regret his insinuation about Inga. He regretted the pain Yehvah felt, of course, but the possibility of Inga’s death loomed over them. Yehvah needed to prepare for it. Not that she truly could.
Yehvah pulled back and Nikolai took her face in his hands. “Nikolai...” she trailed off, looking utterly lost. Nikolai leaned down and kissed her gently on the mouth. He pressed his forehead to hers. “I promise, when dawn comes, I’ll venture into the city and search for her. We’ll have to wait out the night.”
Yehvah closed her eyes, releasing fresh tears down her cheeks. She nodded, and the melancholy of the motion broke Nikolai’s heart.
“Now,” he turned so they faced the same direction and laced his fingers through hers. “What can I do to help you?”
Chapter 13
Inga staggered through murky darkness. The smell of smoke filled her nose and the strange, tinny clang of metal sounded far away. The ground squelched under her feet as though she walked through mud. Perhaps muddy ashes.
Something sharp dug into her shoulder.
With a gasp, Inga bolted into a sitting position. The bright light of the overcast sky blinded her. An old woman wearing a soot-blackened smock stood over her. In one hand, she held a long stick with a pointed end, still hovering above Inga’s shoulder.
Memory instantly rushed back. Inga scoured the northern suburbs for most of the night, searching for a place the survivors of the fire might be hiding, but found nothing.
