The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(99)

“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 holding 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.

Furious, Vasya uncoiled a golden rope, and said, “Are we allies or no, Medved? I am getting tired of you.”

“Oh, I do not like that thing,” said the Bear. But his mouth closed; he seemed to shrink. Men were coming nearer.