But in his face was an echoing savagery; he looked suddenly like he had on a Midwinter midnight: proud, young, dangerous. There were traces of Sasha’s blood on his hands too.
“And for the living, beloved,” he said, low. “They are my people too.”
He caught her bloody hand in his and all around the wind shrieked; the cry of the first snowstorm. Her soul was all restless fire, and when she looked up at Pozhar, the golden mare was drawn equally taut; she pawed the ground once. They mounted their horses together, and wheeled and galloped back to the battle, on the breast of a newborn storm.
Flames in her hands; in his grip was the power of bitterest winter.
A shout came from the field, as the Bear, laughing, caught sight of them.
“We must find Dmitrii,” called Vasya, shouting over the noise, as she sent Pozhar hurtling through a knot of Tatar warriors who were galloping down a group of Russian pikemen. The beasts scattered with sudden fright, spoiling their swearing riders’ aim.
A swift wind leaped up and blew wide an arrow that would have struck her, and Morozko said, “There is his standard.”
It was at the apex of a small rise, in the first line of battle; they turned thither, cutting a swath through fighting men as they did. The snow was falling thicker and thicker now. A hail of arrows was targeting Dmitrii’s position. A wedge of horsemen was pushing through, trying to get to that vulnerable banner.
The white mare and Pozhar, light on their feet, cut through the battle faster, but the Tatars were closer and it was a race between them. Ears flat to her head, Pozhar dodged and sprang and galloped, while Vasya shouted at the Tatars’ horses. A few heard her and faltered, but not enough. The ground under the enemy’s feet grew slippery with ice, but the Tatars’ horses were sturdy beasts, used to running on all surfaces, and even that didn’t sway them. Snow blew in their faces, blinding the riders, but still the skillfully timed arrows flew.
“Medved!” Vasya shouted.
The Bear appeared on her other side, still with that edge of shrieking laughter in his voice. “Such joy,” he crowed. He was a
beast, bathed in men’s blood and howling with delight, stark contrast to Morozko’s gathered silence on her other side. Together the three of them made a wedge of their own, and bulled through the fighting.
Vasya set fires at their feet, swiftly smothered by the wet field, the fast-falling snow. Morozko blinded them, turned their arrows with a pranking wind.
Medved simply terrified all in his path.
It was a race between them and the Tatars to see who could get to Dmitrii’s position first.
The Tatars won. Arrows flying, they slammed into Dmitrii’s standard like a wave, a few strides before Vasya and her allies. The standard fell, crumpled to mud; all around were shouts of triumph.
Still those arrows fell, deadly accurate. The white mare was hanging close to Pozhar’s flank; most of Morozko’s efforts were spent to keep arrows from Vasya and the two horses.
Dmitrii’s guard was smashed apart; his horse reared and went over. Then three Tatars were on him, hacking.
Vasya shouted, and Pozhar slammed into them with brute force.
Who needed a sword, riding the golden mare? Her hooves shattered them, drove off their horses; sudden fires leaped up at their feet and they were flung back. Vasya slid down the mare’s shoulder and knelt at the Grand Prince’s head.
His armor was hacked; he was bleeding from a dozen wounds. She pulled off his helmet.
But it wasn’t the Grand Prince of Moscow at all. It was a young man she didn’t know, dying.
She stared. “Where is the Grand Prince?” she whispered.
The young man could hardly speak; blood bubbled between his lips. He looked up at her with unseeing eyes. She had to bend near to catch the words. “The van,” he whispered. “The first line of battle. He gave me his armor, so the Tatars would not know him. I was honored. I was…”
The light faded from his eyes.
Vasya closed them, turned.
“The line of battle,” she said. “Go!”
TATARS EVERYWHERE, FIGHTING. Arrows flying from all sides. Morozko was riding knee to knee with Vasya, keeping arrows from her with grim tenacity. With the Bear they cut through battles when they could, bringing snow, fire, terror.
“The line is wavering,” put in the Bear conversationally. His eye still glittered, his fur spiked with blood. “Dmitrii is going to have to
—”
Then she heard Dmitrii’s voice. Undimmed, hale, roaring out over all the clash of armies. “Fall back!” he cried.
“That is not ideal,” said the Bear.
“Where is he?” said Vasya. She could hardly see through the snow and the thrash of fighting men.
“There,” said Morozko.
Vasya looked. “I can’t see.”
“Come on then,” said the winter-king. Shoulder to shoulder they fought their way through the press. Now she could see Dmitrii, still mounted, dressed in the armor of an ordinary boyar, his sword in his hand. Whooping, he ran a man through, used his horse’s weight to boost another man out of his saddle. There was blood on his cheek, his arm, his saddle, and the neck of his horse. “Fall back!”
The Tatars were advancing. All around, the arrows flew. One grazed her arm; she barely felt it. “Vasya!” snapped Morozko, and she realized her upper arm was bleeding.
“The Grand Prince has to live,” said Vasya. “All this is for naught if he dies—”
And then Pozhar was level with Dmitrii’s horse, rearing, forcing another attacker back.
