If not for the war, so many lives would be spared.

“They are martyrs whose legacies will live on through the revolution.” As distant gunfire and shouts echoed through the walls, Koschei’s gaze bored into me. “Do you realize how many people have died under the bogatyri’s oppression? How many homes have been burned, how many families torn apart? Even now, the Otzvuk are scorching the earth they’re driven from. They believe it’s their divine destiny to rule over us lesser men, but would you like to know something? Their powers are no different than those of kolduny. The only difference is that the bogatyri gain their powers through blood, through privilege, while we gain ours through suffering and need.”

Another explosion racked the building, this time powerful enough to stagger Koschei. His sword swung to the side, narrowly missing me as I splayed my fingers across the floor to keep from falling. My thumb found cold metal. Wincing as the point nipped me, I looked down. A pair of medical shears.

As Koschei regained his balance, I lunged forward. He swung his sword. I ducked, the blade cutting the air above my skull. I slammed into him. Underneath his military uniform, he was all hard muscle and bone, sharp angles that made for a painful collision.

As we reeled back, my shears found his chest. The blade sank up to the hilt in him when I slipped on the spilled salve and fell. His shashka clattered to the floor and I landed on top of him, still clutching the shears’ handle.

Dust rained from the ceiling as a third explosion racked the castle. I couldn’t tell whether the building itself had been hit or if the Otzvuk artillery units were firing at the outposts I had spotted near the mountain’s base, but the explosions were close—their glow flared through the window, bathing the room in palpitations of crimson light.

As I rolled off him and lumbered to my feet, Koschei lay where I felled him, groaning in pain. Blood oozed between his fingers and ran down his side, black in the fading firelight.

Rushing over to the other end of the bed, I snatched the key from the mattress and unlocked Mikhail’s last shackle. He sagged heavily against me. His legs nearly gave way as I helped him toward the door.

“Kill him, Toma,” Mikhail mumbled. “Stake him to the earth and dismember him, so he stays that way.”

The scissors skittered across the floor, coming to a rest at our feet. The blade was stained with gore. I looked over my shoulder as Koschei lumbered onto his hands and knees, his fingers already closing around his sword’s hilt. Thin strings of blood oozed to the floor, the flow stemming by the second.

Slowly, Koschei raised his head, his lion-bright eyes burning into me. And he smiled.

41

A cacophony of gunfire and mortar blasts filled my ears as Mikhail and I escaped down the hall. I hurried alongside him, encircling my arm around his back to provide needed support. Whatever drug he had been given to stanch his pain had also left him stumbling and lethargic, as if he existed in a realm separate from the deafening concussions of artillery shells and the screams of dying men.