21. Battle Joined

Chapter twenty-one

Battle Joined

Han

L ooking down from the entrance of my tent, I could see Miroslav's camp, the multicolored tents a stark contrast to the snowy horizon they sat upon. Many of the tents, I knew, housed the nobles of the court, but they gave the appearance of a much larger army than had been reported. In comparison, Tsar Borislav's army was miniscule.

The battle lines were forming on the field, but off to the side, opposite the ice wall, was a hastily-erected platform where the nobles were gathering with their retinues. The platform was positioned far enough from the armies to prevent collateral damage, but close enough that the occupants would be able to see the outcome of the battle as it happened. As though war was a jousting tournament, to be enjoyed while drinking spiced wine.

In Miroslav's camp, a few figures moved about. I peered down at them from my spot in the doorway of my own tent, squinting to see better.

"She's not there, you know," Yakov said from his cot inside the tent.

"I wasn't looking for her," I lied. Objectively, I knew Mila wouldn't have traveled with the court—as a trade worker, there was no reason for her to leave the palace—but I couldn't help hoping for a glimpse of her.

"Sure, you weren't." Groaning, he stood and stretched. "Prophet's balls, why do battles always have to be so early?"

"You could always go back to sleep after the tsar dismisses us." Borislav and his brother had agreed to talk terms before the battle. A meaningless gesture, everyone knew, but one that must be made. The tsar had requested Yakov and I join him for that meeting.

He snorted. "Da, with cannons going off halfway down the hill. That'll be easy."

"Get dressed, durachok. The tsar's waiting."

A short while later, we rode from camp with the tsar, Prince Radomir, and several of the tsar's advisors. Passing through the shadow of a plateau formed by the tsar's magic, I glanced up. At the top of the structure, I knew, was a cannon and the team of men to operate it. In front of the platforms, soldiers stood silent in formation. An ice abatis jutted out of the ground, angled toward the enemy. I shivered at the sight, picturing the bodies that would soon be broken on the frozen spikes.

Miroslav's retinue reached the center of the battlefield at the same time we did. Revulsion turned my stomach as I saw the tsar's brother for the first time since Barbezht. This was the man who had taken my hand, who had slaughtered and caused suffering for so many.

I looked sideways at Yakov, knowing his mind was in the same place. His teeth were clenched, knuckles white on his horse's reins. His gaze bored into Miroslav, who wore a scowl beneath his shining black fur hat.

Miroslav's party was no bigger than Borislav's, but while Tsar Borislav's advisors were simply dressed, Miroslav's were dressed too finely to be anything but nobles. I didn't recognize any of the noblemen, but that wasn't surprising. Aside from the first uprising, I'd never traveled beyond Tsebol.

Behind the small group of nobles was an enclosed sleigh. It was simple, almost rustic, and the windows were covered so no one could see the occupants. As the black-hooded driver halted the horses, a sense of dread crawled up my spine.

Tsar Borislav nodded in greeting as the two parties drew to a stop. "Brother."

Miroslav's scowl deepened. "Borislav. Are you ready to submit?"

The tsar's voice was quiet. "You know I can't do that. You've forfeited your rights as Heir of the Sanctioned, Miroslav."

"I am the Heir," Miroslav hissed. "You can't take that from me."

Radomir cleared his throat. "The Prophet said, ‘If the Heir burdens his brothers and does not follow the precepts of Otets, his brothers are to make a Disinheritance of him.'"

The nobleman nearest to Miroslav spat on the ground. "Superstitious drivel used to excuse treason. The tsar rules by birthright, not by some divine nonsense."

Something about the spitting nobleman left a bad taste in my mouth. His face was red, his hair and beard a dusty orange. The expression he wore was one of pure contempt. He looked at me, eyes snagging on my missing hand, and a wicked grin crept across his face. I clenched my fist and turned back to my tsar.

"You've surrounded yourself with unbelievers, Miroslav." Borislav spoke calmly, as if addressing a child. "You've used the Gifts of the Blood against those you were charged to rule, and you've overburdened the people with taxes to support an army in times of peace. Otets—"

"Times of peace? Is that what you call this, when you raise an army against me?"

"Otets has charged us to make a Disinheritance," Borislav went on, as if his brother hadn't spoken. "If you surrender now, you won't be punished. Accept your Disinheritance, and all your needs will be met. But you must allow me to rule. For the good of the realm."

"Do you honestly believe your self-righteous drivel? You want the throne for your own glory. You think that because our father favored you, you deserve to be tsar. The birthright is mine!" His voice became louder, more shrill with every word. "You won't win this, Borislav. I defeated you before, and I will again. Or have you forgotten Barbezht?"

The tsar beckoned me and Yakov forward. "I haven't forgotten, brother. Have you?"

Miroslav stared collectedly at us. "I wondered where they had gone. No matter. I found the rest." Turning his horse, he nodded to the hooded driver, who climbed down from his seat at the front of the sleigh and opened the door. A guard came out, followed by a group of men changed together by their ankles. Another guard followed them.

The prisoners' hands weren't chained. As I watched them approach, I realized with a sinking feeling that each of the men was missing his right hand. One man was familiar; his deep-set eyes held an expression of resignation, contrasted with the terror on his companions' faces.

"Boris Stepanovich," I breathed. Yakov and I shared a look of horror.

The remaining survivors of Barbezht. So few. I'd known only a handful of men had survived, but was it really so few? Eleven men, plus me and Yakov. Only thirteen survivors, of the hundreds of men who had taken the field for Tsar Borislav.

Borislav had recognized the men as well. He sat straighter on his horse, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "My friends, I'm so sorry for the indignities you've been forced to suffer in the wars between my brother and me."

"You can end this," Miroslav said. "Their lives are in your hands. Surrender, and I'll release them. They knelt to me at Barbezht; I won't hold your latest treason against them."

He would never let them go. Borislav had to know that. I gritted my teeth, wishing I could drive a sword between the monster's ribs.

My tsar closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if to steady himself. He looked at his brother. "No, Miroslav. Their lives are in your hands. I cannot and will not surrender."

Miroslav nodded over his shoulder, and the guards drew long daggers from their belts. "This is your last chance. Surrender, or they die."

Borislav turned to the prisoners. "I am sorry. May Otets receive you." He raised a hand in blessing.

"See what cowardice," Miroslav sneered. "He would rather sacrifice thousands in war than die himself." He waved a hand at the guards. "Kill them."

The prisoners erupted in cries for mercy that pierced my heart. What if I hadn't gone to Tsebol in search of the tsar? Would I have been kneeling there, begging for my life? I forced myself to watch as the guards stepped behind the first two men and sliced their throats. Their bodies thudded onto the ground, twitching as blood stained the snow crimson. Man by man they went down, until only Boris Stepanovich remained. His eyes remained fixed on our tsar, and Borislav met his gaze, unflinching. He didn't fight as the guard grabbed him by the hair and forced his head back. The knife tore through his throat, and his body dropped to the snow.

Miroslav turned back to his brother. "After I defeat you, you'll suffer the same fate, and your head will hang above the gates of Idesk."

Borislav didn't respond. I couldn't look away from the blood freezing in pools, the limp bodies of my brothers-in-arms. Anger roared in my ears, and my fist was so tight around the reins that my nails split the skin of my palm. Miroslav was a monster. A beast. He deserved to burn.

Over the thunder of rage in my head, I heard Radomir say, "This is why we're making a Disinheritance, cousin. You've abandoned Otets' precepts, and so He has abandoned you."

The tsar, still silent, turned his horse and rode back to the army. Tearing my gaze from the scene of the massacre, I joined the rest of Borislav's men, following him back to our line.

When we reached the assembled men, Radomir stopped. "Soldiers!" he began, but the tsar stopped him.

Borislav touched the tip of his staff to his throat. "My friends." His voice, magically amplified, made me flinch. "My friends, today my brother has yet again committed an atrocity against the subjects entrusted to him by Otets. Rather than face his Disinheritance with honor, he brought prisoners, innocents, hoping to force me to surrender by threatening their lives. Thirteen men survived the battle of Barbezht. Moments ago, while they knelt before him, Miroslav killed eleven of them."

He paused, looking up and down the lines with fire in his eyes. I saw soldiers glance at me and Yakov, and guilt and rage twisted in my gut. Guilt for surviving, and rage at Miroslav for making it so. All those hundreds of men that had gone onto the field at Barbezht, and only Yakov and I remained.

"I am filled with a righteous fury," the tsar went on, face contorted with the depth of his emotion. "My brother and all who condone such actions deserve to pay for what has been done today. I would ride at your head, bringing Otets' justice to the army opposite us!" As a cheer went up, he raised his staff, turning his eyes to the sky. Radomir scowled, his eyes narrowed in warning.

Borislav lowered his staff, and the army quieted. "But I heed the counsel of my advisors. They temper my anger, urging me not to risk our cause by placing myself in danger. So, reluctant though I am, I leave this battle in the capable hands of each one of you. I have done all I can; the rest is up to you.

"Know this, my friends: Prince Radomir will lead you well, Otets will guard you well, and you will acquit yourselves well. And when this war is over, you will know that it was won not because you had a Sanctioned at your head, but because each and every one of you fought for justice, for mercy, and for Inzhria!"

"For Inzhria!" the men echoed. For our homeland. The cry repeated as we rode through the troops back to the camp. I kept my eyes trained on the ground. I couldn't face the anger and blame in the soldiers' faces. Why should I, of all those who fought at Barbezht, be alive? I couldn't even fight this battle.

Among the cries of "For Inzhria," I heard another phrase. "For Barbezht!" My head jerked up, and I looked around for the source of the cry. The men nearby were watching me, their eyes blazing with anger, though not at me. Each man whose eyes I met nodded or saluted. Their rage was targeted toward Miroslav, toward the enemy. The kind of fury that would keep them alive through the battle. A righteous anger, a fire that would burn through all that stood against it. They weren't angry at me, they were angry for me.

I sat up straighter in the saddle, returning the salutes of the men I passed. I couldn't fight this battle, but they could. They would fight for me.