“I think,” said Chelubey, “that after the night’s excitement, the general will have no further objections to you dying while I torture you. Get him on his feet.”
But the men weren’t looking down at Sasha anymore. They were backing up, with expressions of horror.
* * *
THE ROAD BACK THROUGH Midnight was short. Vasya’s blood cried out for her brother; and Pozhar had no objection to galloping through the forest at reckless speed. Voron raced alongside them. The black stallion was far swifter than any mortal horse, but still he labored to match the golden mare’s pace.
Vasya mourned in silence even as she savored the strength of the mare beneath her. The firebird was not, and never would be, her other self, and Pozhar’s grace reminded Vasya of her loss all over again.
The Bear paced the horses in silence. He had let go the shape of a man; he ran as a great shadow-beast, nourished by her blood. As they went, he sniffed at the sky, barely containing a bared-teeth eagerness.
“Hoping for killing?” said Vasya.
“No,” said the Bear. “I care naught for the dead. Mine are the suffering living.”
“Our task is to save my brother,” Vasya said sharply. “Not to make people suffer. Are you so quickly forsworn, Medved?”
The two pieces of golden rope shimmered eerily on her wrists. He shot them a dark look and said, a growl just entering his voice, “I have promised.”
“Ahead,” said Midnight. Vasya squinted into the darkness. Fires broke up the night in front of them; the wind brought them the smell of men and horses.
Vasya sat back and Pozhar slowed, grudgingly. Her nostrils flared, disliking the smell of men. “I left my brother on the north side of the camp, not far from a stream,” said Vasya to Polunochnitsa. “Is he still there?”
In answer, Midnight slid down from her horse, put a light hand on the stallion’s neck, whispered. Voron reared up against the sky, mane flying lightly as feathers, and then a raven flew into the night.
“Solovey never did that,” Vasya said, watching the black horse change and fly.
“Take his other form? He was too young,” said Midnight. “A colt still. The young ones only change with difficulty. He’d have learned to control his own nature if—”
“He’d had time,” Vasya finished flatly. The Bear glanced at her, half-smiling, as though he could taste the hurt.
“We must follow Voron,” said Midnight.
“Get up behind me then,” said Vasya. “Unless—Pozhar, do you mind?”
The mare looked as though she were considering saying no, just to remind them that she could. Very well, she said irritably, switching her tail.
Vasya put an arm down; the chyert seemed to weigh nothing at all. Riding double on the mare, they surged forward, the Bear at Pozhar’s flank. Ahead, the trees thinned, and a single raven croaked from the darkness.
* * *
THE TATARS WERE STILL where she’d left them. Some were still mounted; others stood in a ragged circle. Two reached down, heaving, and Vasya glimpsed the dim shape of her brother being dragged to his feet. He was limp, his head hung down.
“Can you frighten them off?” said Vasya to the Bear, hearing her voice shake, quite beyond her control.
“Perhaps, mistress,” said Medved, and grinned his vast dog-grin at her. “Do keep panicking. It helps me.”
She just stared at him, stone-faced, and he relented. “Do something else useful then. See that tree there? Set it afire.”
A flicker of remembered fire, and the tree burst into flames. It was disturbing, how easy it had become. Being near the Bear fanned the chaos in her own heart. His eye found hers. “It would do you good to go mad,” he murmured. “It would make it easier. You could do any magic you pleased—if you were mad. Storms and lightning and noonday darkness.”
“Be silent!” she said. The fire on the tree grew bigger, sending out a sweep of golden light. Reality wavered; she dug her nails into her palms, and whispered her own name, to make it stop. She forced her voice to calm. “Are you going to frighten them off or not?”
Still smiling, the Bear turned wordless toward the huddle of men and began to creep closer. Their horses backed up, nostrils flared. Wide-eyed, the men faced the night, swords in their hands.
Within the firelight, a shadow grew. A strange, crawling, mutable shadow, slinking toward men and horses. The shadow of an unseen beast.
The Bear’s soft voice seemed to come from the shadow itself. “Interfere with my servant?” he whispered. “Lay hands on what is mine? You’ll die for it. You’ll die screaming.”
His voice got into the men’s ears, got into their minds. His shadow crawled nearer, sending twisted shapes dancing across the fire-beaten ground. The men were trembling. A soft, unearthly snarl filled the night. The shadows seemed to spring. At the same moment, a flicker of memory from Vasya made the flames leap in the burning tree.
The men’s nerve broke. They fled, mounted or afoot, until there was only one alone, standing over her brother’s prone form, shouting at the running men. They had let Sasha fall as they escaped.
The single man was Chelubey. Vasya nudged Pozhar then and rode into the light.
Chelubey blanched. His sword-blade dipped. “I warned them,” he said. “Oleg and Mamai—those fools. I warned them.”
Vasya gave him a dazzling smile, without warmth. “You shouldn’t have told them I was a girl. Then they might have believed that I was dangerous.”
Pozhar’s eyes were embers, her mane, smoke and sparks. A touch to her flank drove the mare into a rear. She lashed out with her forefeet, and even Chelubey’s nerve broke then. He fled, leaped to his own horse’s back, shot away. Pozhar, half-maddened, sprang in pursuit. Vasya curbed her after a few bolting strides. Her blood was up; she had to fight her own urge, as well as the mare’s, to ride Chelubey down. It was as though the Bear’s presence goaded them both to rashness.
Well, he could goad all he liked; Vasya would make decisions for herself. “My brother,” she said, seizing control of herself, and Pozhar was persuaded, with difficulty, to turn.
The Bear looked mildly disappointed. Ignoring him, Vasya dropped to the ground at her brother’s side. Sasha was curled up, arms wrapped around his body. Blood showed on his mouth, on his back, black in the firelight. But he was alive. “Sasha,” she said, cradling his head. “Bratishka.”
Slowly, he looked up. “I told you to run,” he croaked.
“I came back.”
“That was disappointingly easy,” said the Bear from behind her. “What now?”
Sasha tried to sit up, made a small sound of pain. “No,” Vasya said. “No, don’t be afraid. He helped me.” She was feeling her brother over gently. The blood on his hand and back had gone cold and sticky, and his breath was short with pain, but she could find no fresh wounds. “Sasha,” she said. “I must go into the camp, and find Vladimir Andreevich. Can you stand? You can’t stay here.”
“I think I can stand,” he said. He tried, struggling. Once he put his weight on his injured hand and made a sound not far from a scream. But he got himself upright, leaning heavily on her. She staggered under his weight; her brother was barely conscious.
Perhaps that was a blessing, considering how he’d feel about her allies.
“Will you take him up on Voron?” Vasya asked Polunochnitsa. “And hide him from the Tatars?”
“You want me to nursemaid a monk?” Polunochnitsa asked, disbelieving. Then her expression turned curious. It occurred to Vasya that a chyert might be persuaded to try any unusual thing just to relieve the boredom of eternity.
“Swear you won’t hurt him, or allow him to be hurt, or frighten him,” Vasya said. “Meet us here. We are going to get my cousin.”
At that Sasha croaked, “Am I a nursing babe, Vasya, that she must swear all those oaths? Who is this?”
“Travel by midnight would awaken the sight in even a monk,” put in the Bear. “That is interesting.”
Reluctantly Vasya answered Sasha, “Lady Midnight.”
“The one who hates you?”
“We came to an arrangement.”
Midnight gave Sasha an appraising look. “I swear it, Vasilisa Petrovna. Come, monk, and get on my horse.”
Vasya wasn’t sure of the wisdom of trusting Midnight with her brother, but she had little choice.
“Come on,” she said to the Bear. “We have to free the Prince of Serpukhov, and then we must persuade Oleg of Ryazan that he is fighting for the wrong side.”
Following her, the Bear said reflectively, “I might even enjoy that. Although it rather depends on your method of persuasion.”
* * *
VASYA’S FIRES HAD BURNED down to scarlet embers, but they glowed on every hand, illuminating the Tatar encampment with a hellish light. Weary men were catching the foam-streaked horses and whispering among themselves; the air of unease was palpable. The Bear surveyed the remains of turmoil with a critical eye. “Admirable,” he said. “I’ll make a creature of chaos of you yet.”
She feared she was already halfway there, but she was not saying that to him.
The Bear said, “What do you mean to do?”
Vasya told him her plan.
He laughed. “A few shambling corpses would be better. Nothing better for getting people to do what you want.”
“We are not disturbing any more dead souls!” snapped Vasya.
“You may find it tempting, before the end.”
“Not tonight,” said Vasya. “Can you set fires, yourself?”
“Yes, and put them out too. Fear and fire are my tools, sweet maiden.”
“Can you smell my cousin?”
“Russian blood?” he asked. “Do you think me a witch in a fairy tale?”
“Yes or no.”
He lifted his head and snuffed the night. “Yes,” he said, growling a little. “Yes, I suppose I can.”
Vasya turned to have a quick word with Pozhar. Then she followed the Bear into the Tatar camp on foot. As she did, she took a deep breath and forgot that she was anything but a shadow, walking beside another shadow. One with teeth.
Invisibly, they slipped into the chaos of the camp, and the Bear, in his element, seemed to grow. He moved unerringly through the noise, the little knots of still-frightened horses, and where he passed, the horses shied and fires flared. Men turned clammy faces toward the darkness. He grinned at them, blew sparks into their clothes.
“Enough,” said Vasya. “Find my cousin. Or I will bind you with more than just promises.”
“There is more than one Russian here,” said the Bear irritably. “I can’t—” He caught her eye and finished almost meekly, except for a hint of sudden laughter in his eyes. “But that one smells like the far north.”
She followed him, quicker now. Finally, he halted near the center of the camp. Instinctively she wanted to flatten herself, hiding in the shadow of a round tent, but that would mean she believed the soldiers could see her.
They couldn’t. She held that thought and stayed where she was.
A bound man was kneeling, silhouetted, beside a well-tended fire. All around, soldiers were soothing their restive horses.
Three men stood near the fire, arguing. With the light behind them, it took her a moment to recognize Mamai and Chelubey and Oleg. She wished she could understand what they were saying.
“They are deciding whether or not to kill him,” said the beast beside her. “It seems your escape has made them wary.”
“You understand Tatar?”
“I understand the speech of men,” said the Bear, just as a dazzle of fresh light poured over the camp, panicking the horses all over again. Vasya didn’t look up. She knew what she would see: Pozhar soaring overhead, streaming smoke, her fiery wings making arcs of scarlet and blue, gold and white.
I can’t make the earth catch fire like I did in the city, Pozhar had said, when Vasya asked. That was—I was so angry, I was maddened with anger. I can’t do it again.
“You don’t have to,” Vasya returned. “Just dazzle them. It will send a message to my countrymen.” She patted the horse comfortingly, and Pozhar bit her on the shoulder.
Now all around the camp, men looked to the sky. A babble of renewed talk broke out. She heard the snap of bowstrings, saw a few arrows arc up into the night, but Pozhar was keeping out of range. A wondering cry, quickly silenced, rose from one of the Russians: “Zhar Ptitsa!”
“Can you make it so they can see you?” Vasya asked the Bear, not taking her eyes off the general.
“With your blood,” he said.
She gave him her grazed hand; he clung greedily, then she yanked her fingers back again.
“At the right moment then,” she said.
Holding fast to the knowledge that they could not see her, she crept into the light. The three men were still arguing, shouting at each other now, while the bird, shining, impossible, soared overhead.
Vasya walked up behind them, unspooled her golden rope, and wrapped it around Mamai’s throat.
He managed a choked gasp, and then he froze, caught by Kaschei’s magic and her own will.
Everyone in sight froze too. They could see her now. “Good evening,” said Vasya. It was hard to get the breath to speak steadily. The eyes of two dozen expert bowmen were on her; many of them already had arrows up.
“You can’t kill me before I kill him,” she said to them. “Even if you fill me with arrows.” In one hand, she had the golden rope, but in the other was her knife, pressed to Mamai’s throat. She thought she heard Oleg’s voice, interpreting, but she didn’t look around to see.
Chelubey had drawn his sword; he took one furious step toward her, then stopped at Mamai’s wordless, pained sound.
“I am here for the Prince of Serpukhov,” said Vasya.
Mamai made another inarticulate croak, and then said something that sounded like an order. “Silence!” she snapped, and he stood rigid when she pressed the dagger a little more into his neck.
Oleg was gaping at her like a landed fish. Above them the firebird cried again, wheeling, bright against the clouds. The Tatars’ horses plunged. Out of the corner of her eye, Vasya glimpsed men, as though despite themselves, lifting their faces to the light.
Chelubey was the first to recover his wits. “You won’t leave here alive, girl.”
“If I don’t,” said Vasya, “and Vladimir Andreevich doesn’t, then your leader doesn’t either. Will you risk it?”
“Loose your arrows!” snapped Chelubey as Vasya gashed the general’s throat just hard enough to make him cry out. Copper-smelling blood ran over her hands. The bowmen hesitated.
Medved took advantage of the moment to come strolling out of the night: a vast shadow-bear. A hell-light of amusement shone in his good eye.
A single bowstring twanged, the shot wild. Then a terrified stillness fell.
Vasya spoke into the silence. “Free the Prince of Serpukhov, or I will set the whole camp afire and lame every horse. And he will eat what’s left.” She jerked her chin at the Bear. The beast obligingly bared his teeth.
Mamai croaked something. His men hurried. Next moment, the man from the river, her sister’s husband, was coming warily toward her.
He seemed unhurt. His eyes widened when he recognized the boy by the water. Vasya said, “Vladimir Andreevich.” He looked as though he thought the rescue might be worse than the captivity. She tried to reassure him. “Dmitrii Ivanovich sent me,” she said. “Are you all right? Can you ride?”
He dipped his chin in a wary nod, crossed himself. No one moved.
“Come with me,” said Vasya to her cousin. He did, still looking uncertain. She began to back up, still hol
ding on to Mamai by the golden rope.
Oleg had not spoken, but he was watching her very intently. She took a deep breath.
“Now,” she said to the Bear.
Every fire in the encampment went out at once, every lamp and torch. The firebird was the only light, soaring overhead. Then Pozhar swooped low and the horses all plunged at their pickets again, neighing shrilly.
Over the din, in the darkness, Vasya whispered in the general’s ear, “Continue on this course, and you will die. Rus’ will have no conquerors.” She thrust him into the arms of his men, caught her cousin’s hand and pulled him into the shadows, just as three bows twanged. But she had already vanished into the night, and with her the Bear and Vladimir Andreevich.
The Bear was laughing as they ran. “They were so frightened, of a little skinny witch-girl. It was delicious. Oh, we will teach this whole land to fear, before the end.” He turned his good eye on her and added censoriously, “You should have cut the leader’s throat properly. He will live, none the worse.”
“They gave me my cousin. In honor, I could not—”
The Bear whooped unpleasantly. “Hear the girl! The Grand Prince of Moscow gives her a task and she decides on the spot that she’s a boyar, stuffed to the brim with the courtesies of war. How long will it take you to learn better, I wonder?”
Vasya said nothing. Instead she turned aside at a horse-line just at the edge of camp, cut a picket, said, “Here, Vladimir Andreevich. Mount up.”
Vladimir didn’t move. His eyes were on the Bear. “What black devilry is this?”
Happily, the Bear said, “The worst kind.”
Vladimir made the sign of the cross with a hand that shook. Someone shouted in Tatar. Vasya whipped round and saw that Medved, enjoying their terror, had made himself visible against the sky. Vladimir Andreevich was on the edge of fleeing back to his enemies.
The Winter of the Witch Page 30
