The dead came into the dooryard of the Grand Prince of Moscow.

THE PLAGUE HAD NOT been as bad as it could have been, that summer. Not as bad as ten years before; it only sputtered among the poor of Moscow like tinder that refused to catch completely.

But the dead had died in fear and those were the ones the Bear could use. Now the result of the summer’s work came through the gate. Some wore their grave-clothes, some were naked, their bodies marked with the blackened swellings that had killed them. Worst of all, in their eyes was still that fear. They were still afraid, seeking in the darkness for anything familiar.

One of Dmitrii’s guards cried out, staring, “Holy Father, save us!”

Konstantin made not a sound; he was standing frozen, the knife still in his hand. Vasya wanted to kill him, as she’d never wanted to kill anyone in her life. She wanted to bury that knife in his heart.

But there was no time. Her family meant more than her own sorrow.

Faced with Konstantin’s silence, the guards were backing up, their nerve wavering. Dmitrii was still supporting Olga; unexpectedly he spoke to Vasya, his voice clear and calm. “Can those things be slain like men, Vasya?”

Vasya spoke Morozko’s answer, as he said it into her ear. “No. Fire will slow them, and injury, but that is all.”

Dmitrii shot the sky an irritated glance. It was still pouring rain. “Not fire. Injury then,” he said and raised his voice to call concise orders.

Dmitrii had not Konstantin’s control, the liquid beauty of tone, but his voice was loud and brisk, even cheerful, encouraging his men. Suddenly they were no longer a knot of frightened men, backing away from something horrible. Suddenly they were warriors, massed to face a foe.

Just in time. Their blades steadied just as the dead things ran for them, openmouthed. More and more dead things were coming through the gate. A dozen—more.

“Morozko!” Vasya snapped. “Can you—?”

“I can put them down if I touch them,” he said. “But I cannot command them all.”

“We have to get into the palace,” Vasya said. She was supporting Olga now; her sister, used to the smooth floors of her own terem, was clumsy in the sloppy dooryard. Dmitrii had gone forward with his men and Olga’s; they had formed a hollow square, bristling with weapons, about the women, all of them backing up together toward the door of the palace.

Konstantin stood still in the rain, as though frozen. The Bear stood beside him, eyes alight, shouting his army on, joyful.

The first upyry collided with Dmitrii’s guards. A man screamed. Konstantin flinched. Little more than a boy, the man was already on the ground, his throat torn away.

Morozko’s touch was gentle, but his face was savage as he sent that upyr back down into death, whipped round to do the same to two others.