Vasya let out a shaken breath.

The Bear sighed, as though in the most profound satisfaction.

Sasha stood straight, his bloody sword in his hand. He kissed it and lifted it to heaven, saluting God and Dmitrii Ivanovich.

Vasya thought she heard a single voice, Dmitrii’s voice, calling to his men, “God is on our side! Victory is sure! Ride now! Ride!” And then the Russians were charging, all of them, massed, screaming the name of the Grand Prince of Moscow, and of Aleksandr Peresvet.

Sasha turned, straight-backed, as though to call to his horse and join the charge. But he didn’t call.

The Bear turned to look at Vasya, his eyes eager and intent. And then Vasya saw it, the great rent in Sasha’s leather armor, where a sword-thrust had found its mark, unseen in the melee.

“No!”

Her brother turned his head as though he could hear her. Tuman had come back to him, and he put a hand to the pommel of her saddle, as though to vault to her back.

Instead he fell to his knees.

The Bear laughed. Vasya screamed. She did not know such a sound was in her. She leaned forward; Pozhar shot forward, raced across the open field toward Sasha, outstripping the converging armies. The Bear followed her; faintly she could hear the voices of the chyerti of Rus’, running with the Russians.

But Vasya had stopped thinking of victory. On either side the armies were rushing up, but in the middle of the field there was nothing but Tuman, wild with fright, and Chelubey dead, facedown in the mud and water. Vasya had no thought to spare for either, for her brother was still kneeling in the mud but shaking violently now, the blood spilling from his lips. He looked up. “Vasya,” he said.

“Shh,” she told him. “Don’t talk.”

“I am sorry. I meant to live. I did.”

Pozhar silently knelt in the mud for them. “You’re going to live anyway. Get on the horse,” Vasya said.

She had no notion of how it must have hurt him to obey her. The ground shook from the thunder of two armies. He could not sit upright, but slumped, deadweight.

“He is going to die,” said Medved at her side. “Better to take vengeance.”

Without a word, Vasya gashed her hand on her brother’s sword. Blood poured over her fingers. She smeared it across the Bear’s face, putting all she had of will in it.

“Take vengeance for me,” she said flatly.

The Bear shuddered with strength. His eye blazed up, brighter than Pozhar at midnight. Watching her, he snatched Sasha’s helm off the muddy ground and bit deep into his own hand. Blood poured down, clear as water but acrid with the smell of sulfur, pooling in the cupped bronze.

“I give you my power in exchange,” he said, and his glance was sly. “To make the dead rise.”

Then he was gone, disappearing into the fray, terror his weapon. Vasya, balancing the helmet, got up onto Pozhar behind her brother. The mare, ears pinned, stood up despite her double burden, mud on her legs and belly. Fast as a star she galloped away, while all around them the battle was joined.