41. Battle

Chapter forty-one

Battle

Mila

T he med tent sat on the edge of camp, nearest to the city. Despite the early hour, by the time Yakov and I arrived, people were already bustling around. Outside, cauldrons of water boiled over large fires. Cauterizing irons stood next to the fires, ready to be heated at a moment's notice.

As we stepped into the tent, Yakov thrust an apron under my nose. "Put this on."

"Bossy, aren't we?" I took it and tied it around my waist.

He rolled his eyes with a grin as he guided me toward a bronze-skinned young woman with a long black braid. "Lada, this is Han's wife, Mila Dmitrievna. Mila, Blood Bastard Lada Radomirovna. Mila's here to work during the battle."

Ah. This was the missing piece of the story, the reason Yakov was working in the med tent. He had feelings for the Blood Bastard. I smirked at him. His ears turned pink, and he scowled.

I gave the Blood Bastard a bow. "Pleasure to meet you."

She gave him a questioning glance, but he shook his head. "I'll explain later."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mila Dmitrievna." She bobbed her head. "I've heard a lot about you. I wish we had time to get better acquainted, but that will have to wait until after the battle. For now, Yakov can get you set up."

I followed him to a table filled with linens. "Tear those into strips while we're waiting," he said. "I hope we've already got enough, but once casualties start coming in, we won't have time to make any. The more we have, the better."

I saluted, and he laughed.

"I missed you, Mila." He gave me a quick hug, then pointed at the linens. "Now get to work!"

The next hour crawled by. Outside, the armies gathered, the clanking of metal and the tramping of boots intermingling with shouted commands. Inside, it was quiet, tense. Why wouldn't the fighting start already?

It was almost a relief when the cannonfire began.

The first thunderous crack echoed through the camp, making me jump. Yakov and Lada, sitting together nearby, snapped their heads up at the sound. Several of the other men and women in the tent flinched, and one young woman screamed.

Relative silence followed the blast. "It won't be long now, Mila Dmitrievna." The Blood Bastard leaned toward me. "The waiting's the worst part. Once the wounded start coming in, there's no time to worry."

I tried to smile. "Call me Mila, please."

"If you'll call me Lada." She slouched in her chair, relaxed, a striking contrast to my tightly wound insides. "I take it you've never waited at the edge of a battlefield?"

"No."

She opened her mouth, but a pair of soldiers appeared in the doorway, carrying the first casualty, a young man missing most of his left arm. Someone had tied a belt around it, just below the shoulder. The wound was still dribbling blood. I froze, but Yakov and Lada jumped into action.

"Put him on the cot here." Lada reached for a pile of linens. "Yakov, I need the—" He handed her a bottle before she could finish speaking. "Yes. Mila, I'll need the largest cauterizing iron, and while you're waiting for that to heat, bring me a bucket of cool, clean water. I need to get this cleaned out."

Running outside, I placed the iron directly onto the fire and scooped a bucket of clean water from the trough next to the tent.

Back inside, Lada took the bucket and ladle from me, pouring a scoop directly onto the open wound. She did that several times, then took the bottle Yakov had given her and poured a little of the green liquid onto it. "I'm ready for that iron now, Mila."

I ran to fetch it.

When I came back in, the Blood Bastard was barking orders. "Hold him down tight—he's going to fight this." Taking the iron from me, she spoke to the wounded man in a soothing voice. "Now, I have to get the wound sealed. The potion I gave you should numb the pain a bit, but you'll still feel most of it. Yakov will give you something to bite down on."

Yakov loosened the belt around the man's arm, and blood spurted; he tightened it again. "We have to hurry," he said through gritted teeth. Positioning a wide strip of leather in the man's mouth, Yakov put both his arms on the man's chest, holding the wounded arm down.

The soldiers who had brought him in took his remaining limbs. Breathing hard through his nose, the wounded man nodded at Lada, who held the iron to the raw flesh below his shoulder.

He bucked and thrashed as the smell of burning flesh filled my nose. Bile rose in my throat, making me glad I'd forgotten to eat breakfast.

Finally, it was done. The wound was sealed, a disgusting cluster of burns stemming the flow of blood. The soldier slumped onto the cot, his face bloodless.

Two more soldiers hobbled into the tent, both wounded—one with a vicious head wound, the other with his leg bent at an odd angle. One of the other workers, a tall woman, moved to assist them.

"Back to the field," Lada ordered the uninjured soldiers. "Mila, clean off his wound—gently, mind—then pour a bit more of the numbing potion on top. Yakov can show you how to bind it when you're done." Leaving the two of us alone with the patient, she rushed off to treat the new arrivals.

***

Han

Unnatural shadows surrounded us, leaving us nearly invisible as we crept toward the shore. The sound of crashing waves and the smell of fish and saltwater filled the air. In the distance, the first cannon blasts rang out.

Beneath a low cliff up ahead were two long, narrow boats, left there by one of our contacts inside the capital.

We stopped. A shadow peeled off from the group—one of the Drakra—and approached the boats, circling them to check for traps. The rest of us remained in formation around the tsar.

After a moment, the shadow in front of us disappeared, and the Drakra beneath it, a woman with skin the color of snow, nodded once before wrapping herself in shadow again.

We climbed into the boats and pushed off the shore, into the waves. Mist sprayed into my face as we began rowing, keeping close to the jagged rocks that jutted out over the water. The Drakras' shadows swirled around the boats, hiding us from view.

We stopped at a small wooden dock at the base of a cliff. A steep set of stairs, carved into the cliff-side, led upward from the dock; we tied off the boats and began our ascent, single file, into Idesk.

The steps led us to the road that ringed the city. It was empty as ancient ruins, though I could hear in the distance the sounds of battle as our army laid siege to the walls of the city. Somewhere high above us, a loon let out a keening wail. I shivered and reached over to tighten the fingers of my iron hand where it held my sword.

We fell into position around the tsar again. Turning away from the battle, we began our journey to the palace.

Two city guards were still patrolling the road. Miroslav's attempt to prevent his own people from looting the city, I assumed. They stopped as they caught sight of the unnatural cloud of darkness, exchanged frowns, and approached, drawing their swords.

Without a sound, two of the Drakra leapt toward them, shadows swirling. A moment later, the guards were dead, blood pooling on the packed snow beneath them.

I swallowed my rising bile as the Drakra fell back into formation.

At last we reached the hidden path Mila had told us about. We turned off the main road and followed the overgrown cobblestone alley, two by two, with the tsar in the center and me next to him.

The path ended with a small, ancient wooden door. The Drakra in the front of the line shoved it open, and a loud crunching sound marked our arrival.

We flooded through the door and found ourselves, as expected, behind the palace stables. I took the lead, and we formed ranks around the tsar once again. We made our way around the stables and into a courtyard in front of the main palace. A fountain flowed with something thick and red—blood? I shuddered.

Just beyond the fountain stood several men wearing the black armor of palace guards. The Drakra dropped the shadows around us, but the guards saw us a moment too late. They met their fates at the edge of my men's swords.

Inside, the halls were empty of any other guards. Eerie silence filled the palace, broken only by the sound of our footsteps.

We didn't have to go far before we reached the throne room, where Tsar Borislav expected his brother to be holed up, surrounded by his guards and whatever nobles hadn't managed to flee. Judging by the low murmur of frightened voices on the other side of the door, he was right.

Two of my men tried the doors. Bolted shut from the inside. We'd anticipated this, though. The same men placed two black bottles on the floor against the doors. I pulled the tsar back down the hall, and the rest of the group followed.

My men removed the corks from the bottles and ran for cover. I blocked my ears and turned away.

A second passed. Two. With a sound that shook the whole palace, the bottles exploded.

Exploding potions. Lada was either a miracle worker or a witch. Either way, it was a blessing from Otets that she wasn't working against us.

I waited for the smoke to clear before stepping toward the doors that were surely demolished in the blast.

But the smoke and dust from the explosion faded, and the doors still stood. In front of them, two craters remained where the potions had been, but the doors were untouched. Someone had protected them by magical means.

"Step back." Before I could move, the tsar strode forward and touched his staff to the doors.

There was no blast this time, no explosion, but they crumbled at the touch. In a moment, they were nothing more than a pile of ash on the ground.

On the other side, facing us, stood approximately a hundred palace guards. Behind them, nobles and their attendants filled the room, and Miroslav sat on a dais at the end of the hall, atop a giant golden throne. A woman and two young girls stood on his left, and another, older woman, stood on his right. His wife, daughters, and mother, I assumed.

Borislav surveyed the room coolly as he stepped over the rubble. I muttered to two of the Drakra to keep watch, then scrambled after him.

Ignoring the crowd of guards, Borislav looked across the hall. "Mother. You're looking well."

The dowager tsarina didn't respond.

"It's over, Miroslav," the tsar said. "You can give this up now."

Miroslav sneered. "You come with a dozen men and some beasts to claim victory? I have five times your numbers."

Despite the size of the throne room, neither man had to raise his voice. No one made a sound.

"I wish to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. You know you can't win." Borislav was confident, unbothered by the hundred men with weapons pointed in his direction. After everything I'd seen, I understood why. With a wave of his staff, he could wipe out the entire room. I shuddered, saying a silent prayer for protection. "Face me yourself," he said. "Let's end this."

"Do I look like a fool?" Miroslav's voice grew shrill, hysterical. "You've always been able to best me with the Blood Gifts."

"Perhaps that's because Otets favored me." Borislav's tone, calm and emotionless, sent a chill through my bones, though I couldn't say why.

"You were favored, certainly, but I can't speak to Otets' favor."

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, brother."

"Enough!" Miroslav shrieked. "You won't manipulate me. Guards, kill them!"

The first few guards stepped forward. I raised my sword, but Borislav lifted his staff and touched it to the ground. A rumbling grew beneath our feet, accompanied by a cracking sound, and I stumbled backward. A split appeared beneath the staff, spreading and widening toward the oncoming guards. With cries of terror, they fled as the crack became a yawning chasm, but it sped onward, consuming them all.

Still Borislav didn't stop the magic. The chasm grew wider, cutting a path through the crowd of nobles. Most of them scrambled out of the way, but a stout, black-haired man let out a piercing scream as he fell in. A woman with splotches of white across her brown face grabbed the steel-clad arm of the man next to her. They both slipped toward the edge. He wrenched his arm free, grabbing a column for purchase, and the woman fell into the abyss below.

"Stop!" I screamed, but the tsar couldn't or wouldn't. He stared at his brother, his face like stone, as the steps of the dais began to crack. Miroslav flinched, and Borislav raised his staff.

The chasm stopped spreading.

Stunned, I looked at the chaos around us. My men wore wide-eyed, open-mouthed expressions that reflected my own horror.

"Face me," Borislav said. His voice was like ice. "There's no one left to defend you. Face me."

Miroslav looked around at the nobles, and his gaze stopped on the man who had let the noblewoman fall. Large and red-faced, with a shock of orange hair, the man wore an expression of disdain as he looked up at Miroslav, who nodded.

The nobleman and his servant drew their swords and charged forward. I elbowed the tsar aside and stepped in front of him as my men joined me.

The nobleman reached me first, and our swords met, sending a jolt of pain through my arm. He came at me with a ferocity that seemed fueled by a personal hatred, though I'd never seen him before. I backed up, letting the other man take the offensive, searching for weaknesses.

There. As he raised his sword for a high strike, I spotted a chink in his armor. I jabbed my sword under his arm, into the gap.

He clutched at the wound, eyes wide, and stumbled backward. He was almost to the edge of the chasm—his foot slipped. He fell, and a scream tore from his lips, cutting off in the middle as he hit the bottom of the chasm with a sickening thud.

I looked around. The tsar was safe. The nobleman's servant had been dispatched as well, not killed but disarmed. He lay on the ground, panting, with a sword at his neck.

"Face me," Borislav insisted once more.

Miroslav's defenders had all been defeated. His mother handed him a black staff, the twin to Borislav's white one. He took it and lifted it into the air as Borislav touched his own to the ground again.

In an instant, the throne was gone.

It took a moment for my mind to process what I saw. The chasm, which had grown quickly but steadily before, had expanded in a flash as soon as Borislav touched his staff to the ground. With barely a movement, the tsar had killed his brother.

The screams of the dead, of Miroslav and his wife, mother, and daughters echoed far longer than I thought possible. The surviving nobles, what few there were, didn't move. Didn't make a sound.

He'd killed them. And not just that, he'd committed the greatest abomination. He'd turned the Gifts on the unSanctioned.

I dropped to my knees as the contents of my stomach splattered on the ruined palace floor.

"Captain," the tsar said when I'd collected myself enough to stand, "please send someone to inform Grand Duke Radomir and Yixa na Chekke of our victory."