Dmitrii turned and saw her. His face changed. He leaned over and seized her arm, heedless of her wounds or his.
“Sasha,” he said. “Where is Sasha?”
Battle had numbed her, but at his words, the fog around her mind thinned a little—and beneath it was agony. Dmitrii saw it in her face.
His own whitened. His lips firmed. Without another word to Vasya, he turned to his men again. “Fall back! Join the second line, bring them up.”
It wasn’t orderly. The Russians were breaking, fleeing, hiding themselves in the second line of battle, which was wavering badly.
Now the Bear was nowhere to be seen, and—
Dmitrii said, turning back on her suddenly, “If Oleg was planning to take a hand, now is a good time.”
“I’ll go find him,” said Vasya. To Morozko, she said, “Don’t let him die.”
Morozko looked as though he wanted to swear at her; there was mud on his face too, and blood. A long scratch marred the neck of his mare. He wasn’t the aloof winter-king now. But he only nodded, turned his horse to keep up with Dmitrii.
Dmitrii said, “If Oleg hasn’t betrayed us, tell him to fall in on Mamai’s right flank,” and then he whirled away calling more orders.
Vasya turned Pozhar, trying to sink once more into invisibility, cutting through the advancing Tatar line in search of Oleg.
SHE FOUND THE MEN of Ryazan fresh, waiting on a small rise, watching.
“This,” said Vasya, riding up to him, “is not generally what is meant when you take an oath to a Grand Prince that you are going to fight.”
Oleg just smiled at her. “When one is risking everything on a hammer-stroke, one waits until the stroke does the most good.” He
looked over the field. “That time is now. Ride down with me, witch-girl?”
“Hurry,” said Vasya.
He called an order; Vasya wheeled Pozhar. The mare was glowing coal-hot, but Vasya couldn’t feel it.
The men of Ryazan, shouting, raced down the rise at full stretch.
Horns were blowing. Vasya fell in beside Oleg’s stirrup, going to a little trouble to hold Pozhar to the pace of the racing horses. She saw the Tatars turning in shock, to meet an attack on an unexpected quarter, and then she saw another movement from the woods on Dmitrii’s left flank—Vladimir’s cavalry coming out of the forest at last, and the Bear among them, driving their horses on with the speed of terror. She could hear his whooping laughter.
And so they caught the Tatars between them—Oleg, Vladimir, and Dmitrii—and smashed the line to pieces.
BUT STILL IT HAD to be fought out, hour by bloody hour, and she did not know how long it had been—hours? days?—when at last a voice brought her back to herself. “Vasya,” Morozko said. “It is over. They are fleeing.”
It seemed a haze fell from her sight. She looked around and realized that they had met in the middle: Oleg, Vladimir, and Dmitrii, and also she, the Bear, and Morozko.
Dmitrii was half-fainting from his wounds; Vladimir supported him. Oleg looked triumphant. All around she saw only their own men. They had won.
The wind had dropped; the early snow fell steadily now. Lightly, silently, thickly, it covered dead enemies and dead friends alike.
Vasya just stared at Morozko, stupid with shock and weariness. A thin curtain of blood ran down from a scratch in the white mare’s neck. He looked as weary as she, and as sad, dirt and blood on his
hands. Only Pozhar was unwounded: still as sleekly powerful as she’d been that morning.
Vasya only wished she could say the same. Her arrow-grazed arm throbbed, and that wasn’t even close to the pain in her soul.
Dmitrii had forced himself upright, deathly pale, and was walking over to her. She slid down Pozhar’s shoulder and went to meet him.
“You have won,” she said. There was no emotion in her voice.
“Where is Sasha?” said the Grand Prince of Moscow.
37.
Water of Death, Water of Life
DMITRII’S MEN CHASED THEIR FOES all the way back to Mecia—nearly fifty versts. Vladimir Andreevich, Oleg of Ryazan, and Mikhail of Tver led the rout, the princes riding side by side like brothers, and their men mingling like water, so that the eye could no longer tell who was from Moscow or Ryazan or Tver, for they were all Russians.
They took the herds of Mamai’s train and killed the puppet-khan he’d brought; they sent the general himself fleeing to Caffa, not daring to go back to Sarai, where his life would be forfeit.
But neither the Grand Prince of Moscow nor Vasya took part in the rout. Instead, Dmitrii followed Vasya to a little sheltered copse not far from the river.
Sasha lay where they’d left him, wrapped in Vasya’s fur cloak, his flesh clean, inviolate.
Dmitrii half-fell, stumbling from his horse, and caught his dearest friend’s body in his arms. He did not speak.
Vasya had no comfort for him; she was weeping too.
