The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(78)

    “I knew the priest was up to something, the way he harped on my cousin’s wickedness,” said Dmitrii. He took off another dead thing’s head, speaking in grunts. “I had Sasha thrown in prison just to draw Konstantin out. When I went down to see him, Sasha told me everything. In the nick of time too. I thought the priest a bit of a charlatan. But I never would have thought—”

To Dmitrii, it looked as though Konstantin were doing it all himself, controlling the dead. He couldn’t see the Bear. Vasya knew better. She could see Konstantin’s face tormented in the flashes of lightning; she could see the Bear’s too, ferocious, joyful, indomitable.

Vasya said, “I must get to Konstantin. He is standing beside the devil that is causing all this. But I cannot cross the dooryard alive.”

Dmitrii pursed his lips. But he did not speak. After a brief pause, he nodded once, turned and began giving his men crisp orders.



* * *





“YOU HAVE NO POWER over the dead,” whispered the voice of the dvorovoi in Konstantin’s ear. Konstantin barely flinched at the sound, so lost was he in horror. “But you have power over him.”

Slowly, Konstantin turned. “Do I?”

“Your blood,” said the dvorovoi, “will bind the devil. You are not powerless.”



* * *





VASYA’S NOSE WAS FULL of the smell of earth and rot and dried blood. The air was full of hissing rain and shuffling footsteps. The whole scene was illuminated luridly by a flash of lightning. She could hear Olga, still protected by the ring of men, praying softly and continuously.

There was a terrible blaze of blue-white light in Morozko’s face, his hair plastered to his skull with the rain; he did not look human. She could see the stars of the forest beyond life reflected in his eyes. She seized his arm, as he passed near the ring of men. He rounded on her. For a moment, the full weight of his strange power, his endless years, looked out at her from his gaze. Then a little humanity bled back into his face.

    “We have to get to the Bear,” said Vasya.

He nodded; she wasn’t sure he could speak.

Dmitrii was still giving orders. To Vasya he said, “I am splitting the men in two. Half will stay with the princess. The other half will form a wedge, and cut across the dooryard. Do what you can to help us.”

Dmitrii finished giving orders, and the men immediately split. Olga was surrounded by a shrunken ring, pushing back toward the door of the palace.

The rest made a wedge and drove forward, shouting, toward the Bear and Konstantin, through the packed mass of dead.

Vasya ran with them, and a dozen upyry bloomed into flame on either side. Morozko’s swift hand caught the dead by wrist and throat, banishing them.

There were so many. Their progress slowed, but still they came nearer the Bear. Nearer. Now the men were faltering. In their faces was sick fright. Even Dmitrii looked suddenly afraid.

The Bear was doing it; he grinned. As the men wavered, the upyry drove forward with renewed strength. One of Dmitrii’s men fell, his throat torn away, and then another. A third shrieked with horror as sharp teeth sank into his wrist.

Vasya set her jaw. The fear buffeted her, too, but it wasn’t real. She knew that. It was the Bear’s trick. She loosed the fire from her soul again, and this time it flared from the Bear’s streaming coat.

Medved turned his head, snapping, and the fire instantly died. But she had used his moment of inattention. While Morozko kept the dead things off her, she threw herself across the last few steps, unwound the golden rope from her wrist and flung it over his head.

The Bear dodged, somehow. He dodged the links as they flew. Laughing, he lunged, jaws open, to snatch at Morozko. Though the frost-demon ducked, Vasya didn’t have time for another try, for the movement had pulled Morozko from the side and the dead things had closed round her. “Vasya!” Morozko shouted. A slimy hand caught at her hair; she didn’t bother to look before she set the creature afire. It fell back, howling. But there were so many. Dmitrii’s wedge had splintered; men were fighting individual battles all over the dooryard. The Bear was keeping Morozko from her, and the dead were closing in once more…

    A new voice sounded from the direction of the gate. Not a chyert or a dead thing.

It was her brother standing there, sword in hand. Beside him stood his master, Sergei Radonezhsky. They both looked disheveled, as though they’d had a hard ride through dangerous streets. The rain ran down Sasha’s drawn sword.

Sergei lifted his hand and made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father,” he said.

Astonishingly, the dead things froze. Even the Bear stilled at the sound of that voice. Somewhere in the dark, a bell began to ring.

A touch of fear showed even in the winter-king’s eyes.

The lightning flashed again, illuminating Konstantin’s face, which had gone slack with horrified wonder. Vasya thought, He believed there was nothing more in this world than devils and his own will.

Sergei’s praying was quiet, measured. But his voice cut through the hammering rain, and every word echoed clearly around the dooryard.

The dead still didn’t move.

“Be at peace,” finished Sergei. “Do not trouble the living world again.”

And, impossibly, all the dead crumpled to earth.