The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(113)

So it was all across the battlefield. While Sasha armed, and men ate and drew up rank on rank, the chyerti gathered in the thick mist. The vodianoy gurgled in his river; his daughters the rusalki waited on the banks. Some Vasya knew by sight. Many she didn’t. But still they came until the battlefield was teeming, haunted, and she felt the weight of their eyes, and their trust.

The thick mist had begun to burn away. She was already sweating, despite the chill, with nerves and with exertion, riding Pozhar here and there to rally and dispose and encourage her own people in and around Dmitrii’s.

Finally there came a single long blast from a trumpet, and Vasya let her attention return to the world of men. She looked across the great swampy field. Mist still lay in patches between the Tatars and the Russians, but now the Tatars could be seen.

    Vasya’s heart sank.

There were so many. What could a little fear do to a mass of men that great? Their line stretched out as far as she could see; the snorting of their horses was like a rumble far away. Clouds massed in the north, heavy with snow, and the occasional flake tumbled down. Dmitrii had his best troops in the van, with Mikhail, the Grand Prince of Tver, on the left flank. Vladimir, the Prince of Serpukhov, was on the right, but concealed in the thick trees.

Somewhere behind Mamai’s line, Oleg and his boyars were waiting, too, waiting for another signal, to fall upon the Tatars from behind.

All around the chyerti waited, flickering like candle-flames in the corner of her eyes.

The Bear, at her side, surveying them, said, “I have lived a long time, but I have never seen such a magic as this, to draw all our people into war as one.” There was a hell-light of anticipation in his eyes.

Vasya made no answer; she only prayed she’d done the right thing. She tried to think what else she could do but couldn’t think of anything.

Pozhar was restive now, barely ridable. Tension lay thick in the air. Here was no concealing darkness; the mist was gone. There was nothing to hide the fact that a hundred thousand men were about to start killing each other. The battle would start soon. Where was Sasha?

The Bear appeared at her side and gave the field a look of joy. “Mud and screaming,” he said. “Chyerti and men fighting together. Oh, it will be glorious.”

“Do you know where my brother is?” said Vasya.

The Bear smiled wolfishly. “There,” he said, and pointed. “But you can’t go to him now.”

“Why not?”

“Because your brother is fighting that Tatar Chelubey in single combat. Didn’t you know?”

She whipped around, horrified. But it was too late, already too late; the armies were drawn up and now two figures appeared from each side, riding toward each other, on a gray horse and a chestnut.

“You knew and waited to tell me,” she said.

“I may serve you,” said the Bear. “I may even enjoy it. But I will never be trustworthy. Besides, rather than talk to me before, you spent the night arguing with my brother who, no matter how blue-eyed, cannot know the army like I do. Your loss.”

    Pozhar threw her head up, sensing Vasya’s sudden urgency; she said, “I must go to him,” just as the Bear hurled himself snarling in her way.

“Are you a fool?” he demanded. “Do you think there is no man, out of all of them, with the wit to see you or that golden horse? Can you rely on it, when all eyes will be fixed on your brother? Can you be sure that no Tatar will raise no cry of treachery?” And seeing Vasya staring at him, stone-faced, frozen, he added, “The monk will not thank you. That Tatar tortured him; he is doing it for Dmitrii, for his country, for himself. It is his glory, not yours.”

She turned round, indecisive, agonized.

They were all drawn up, the armies of Rus’ and the armies of Mamai, and shivering in the dawn mist, their mail cold and heavy. Among them were the powers that no one could see. The vodianoy of the Don, waiting to drown the unwary. The leshy of the woods, concealing men in his branches. The grinning king of chaos. The lesser chyerti of wood and water.

And unseen, powerful, aloof, the king of winter. He was in the clouds in the north, the hard, chill wind, the occasional snowflake on her cheek. But he would not come down and stand among them. He would not fight Dmitrii’s war. She had seen the terrible knowledge in his eyes: My task is with the dead.

I could be far from here, Vasya thought, seeing her hands tremble. I could be far away, beside the lake, or at Lesnaya Zemlya, or in a clean forest with no name.

Instead I am here. Oh Sasha, Sasha, what have you done?



* * *





ALONE, BROTHER ALEKSANDR RODE onto the swampy field of Kulikovo, rode between the spears of Dmitrii’s vanguard and out into the open space between the two armies. There was no sound but Tuman’s soft snorting breath, and the suck of her hooves in the sodden earth.

    A man on a tall red horse rode out to meet him. More than a hundred thousand men on that field, and still it was quiet enough for Sasha to hear the wind rising, sighing as though in sorrow, blowing down the last of the leaves.

“A fair morning,” said Chelubey, sitting easily on his stocky Tatar horse.

“I am going to kill you,” said Sasha.

“I think not,” said Chelubey. “In fact I am sure not. Poor holy man, with the scars on your back and your torn hand.”