Heart hammering against my rib cage, I threw myself to the ground and scrambled toward the cover of the deflated balloon. The canvas would provide no protection from gunfire, but at least it would hide me.

As another volley of bullets pierced the glade around us, the bogatyr raised his bloodied hands toward the sky as though to beg the goddesses for intervention.

“Long live the Tsar.” Blood bubbled from the bogatyr’s mouth and slid down his chin, diluted pink from the rainwater. Curls of smoke wafted off his palms and forearms. “Glory unto him. May the Three Sisters lead him to victory!”

Crackling flames raced up his arms and leapt from his spread palms in a blazing gout, setting his gaze afire with reflected light. Raindrops evaporated in an instant, forming a scalding cloud of steam as the blaze arched toward the balloon. The two pilots jumped out of the basket seconds before the craft exploded into flames. Bags of fabric spread out above their heads, slowing their fall to a smooth, slow descent.

Carried away by the wind, the pilots disappeared from sight. Smoke billowed from their balloon as it crashed in the depths of the forest.

“You got them!” I turned to the bogatyr.

My smile dropped from my lips as I saw that he had crumpled onto his side. His eyes confronted me, their pupils fixed on a distant point.

I couldn’t stand his sightless gaze. Crawling over, I gently pressed my hand over his eyes and closed his lids. I waited for a moment after lowering my hand, hoping half-heartedly that the bogatyr would open them again. His eyes remained closed.

Only a small percentage of people came back, and even the magic-endowed bogatyri burned or dismembered their fallen to prevent resurrection. Still, after spending so much time among the dead, I had come to expect it.

Rising to my feet, I returned to Mikhail’s side. He hadn’t regained consciousness, but at least he was still breathing. I tried to wrestle him onto my back and nearly collapsed under his weight. Not good. I’d never make it back to the house this way.

I racked my brain for a solution. If I couldn’t carry him, maybe I could drag him.

Drawing my hunting knife, I cut a square of canvas from the deflated balloon. I laid the sheet over Mikhail to shield him from the rain and retrieved rope and more rubberized cotton from among the wreckage.

Once I had gathered my supplies, I rolled the tarp over him, and bound it tightly. The layers of oilcloth enclosed his body, protecting him from the elements.

I looped the remaining rope through two of the holes riveted in the tarp, fashioning a rudimentary lead. Afraid that my sloppy invention would fall apart, I tugged carefully on the rope. The waterproofed canvas slid effortlessly across the mud.

Dragging Mikhail forward, I cast a worried glance behind me. The smoke from the boys’ dirigible was as good as any beacon, and the downpour did little to conceal it. It would only be a matter of time before those two men—the Fraktsiya—made their way to the glade, and I intended for us to be long gone by then.