The thick mist had begun to burn away. She was already sweating, despite the chill, with nerves and with exertion, riding Pozhar here and there to rally and dispose and encourage her own people in and around Dmitrii’s.

Finally there came a single long blast from a trumpet, and Vasya let her attention return to the world of men. She looked across the great swampy field. Mist still lay in patches between the Tatars and the Russians, but now the Tatars could be seen.

Vasya’s heart sank.

There were so many. What could a little fear do to a mass of men that great? Their line stretched out as far as she could see; the snorting of their horses was like a rumble far away. Clouds massed in the north, heavy with snow, and the occasional flake tumbled down. Dmitrii had his best troops in the van, with Mikhail, the Grand Prince of Tver, on the left flank. Vladimir, the Prince of Serpukhov, was on the right, but concealed in the thick trees.

Somewhere behind Mamai’s line, Oleg and his boyars were waiting, too, waiting for another signal, to fall upon the Tatars from behind.

All around the chyerti waited, flickering like candle-flames in the corner of her eyes.

The Bear, at her side, surveying them, said, “I have lived a long time, but I have never seen such a magic as this, to draw all our people into war as one.” There was a hell-light of anticipation in his eyes.

Vasya made no answer; she only prayed she’d done the right thing. She tried to think what else she could do but couldn’t think of anything.

Pozhar was restive now, barely ridable. Tension lay thick in the air. Here was no concealing darkness; the mist was gone. There was nothing to hide the fact that a hundred thousand men were about to start killing each other. The battle would start soon. Where was Sasha?

The Bear appeared at her side and gave the field a look of joy. “Mud and screaming,” he said. “Chyerti and men fighting together. Oh, it will be glorious.”

“Do you know where my brother is?” said Vasya.

The Bear smiled wolfishly. “There,” he said, and pointed. “But you can’t go to him now.”

“Why not?”

“Because your brother is fighting that Tatar Chelubey in single combat. Didn’t you know?”

She whipped around, horrified. But it was too late, already too late; the armies were drawn up and now two figures appeared from each side, riding toward each other, on a gray horse and a chestnut.

“You knew and waited to tell me,” she said.

“I may serve you,” said the Bear. “I may even enjoy it. But I will never be trustworthy. Besides, rather than talk to me before, you spent the night arguing with my brother who, no matter how blue-eyed, cannot know the army like I do. Your loss.”

Pozhar threw her head up, sensing Vasya’s sudden urgency; she said, “I must go to him,” just as the Bear hurled himself snarling in her way.