Medved simply terrified all in his path.

It was a race between them and the Tatars to see who could get to Dmitrii’s position first.

The Tatars won. Arrows flying, they slammed into Dmitrii’s standard like a wave, a few strides before Vasya and her allies. The standard fell, crumpled to mud; all around were shouts of triumph. Still those arrows fell, deadly accurate. The white mare was hanging close to Pozhar’s flank; most of Morozko’s efforts were spent to keep arrows from Vasya and the two horses.

Dmitrii’s guard was smashed apart; his horse reared and went over. Then three Tatars were on him, hacking.

Vasya shouted, and Pozhar slammed into them with brute force. Who needed a sword, riding the golden mare? Her hooves shattered them, drove off their horses; sudden fires leaped up at their feet and they were flung back. Vasya slid down the mare’s shoulder and knelt at the Grand Prince’s head.

His armor was hacked; he was bleeding from a dozen wounds. She pulled off his helmet.

But it wasn’t the Grand Prince of Moscow at all. It was a young man she didn’t know, dying.

She stared. “Where is the Grand Prince?” she whispered.

The young man could hardly speak; blood bubbled between his lips. He looked up at her with unseeing eyes. She had to bend near to catch the words. “The van,” he whispered. “The first line of battle. He gave me his armor, so the Tatars would not know him. I was honored. I was…”

The light faded from his eyes.

Vasya closed them, turned.

“The line of battle,” she said. “Go!”

TATARS EVERYWHERE, FIGHTING. Arrows flying from all sides. Morozko was riding knee to knee with Vasya, keeping arrows from her with grim tenacity. With the Bear they cut through battles when they could, bringing snow, fire, terror.

“The line is wavering,” put in the Bear conversationally. His eye still glittered, his fur spiked with blood. “Dmitrii is going to have to—”

Then she heard Dmitrii’s voice. Undimmed, hale, roaring out over all the clash of armies. “Fall back!” he cried.

“That is not ideal,” said the Bear.

“Where is he?” said Vasya. She could hardly see through the snow and the thrash of fighting men.

“There,” said Morozko.

Vasya looked. “I can’t see.”

“Come on then,” said the winter-king. Shoulder to shoulder they fought their way through the press. Now she could see Dmitrii, still mounted, dressed in the armor of an ordinary boyar, his sword in his hand. Whooping, he ran a man through, used his horse’s weight to boost another man out of his saddle. There was blood on his cheek, his arm, his saddle, and the neck of his horse. “Fall back!”

The Tatars were advancing. All around, the arrows flew. One grazed her arm; she barely felt it. “Vasya!” snapped Morozko, and she realized her upper arm was bleeding.

“The Grand Prince has to live,” said Vasya. “All this is for naught if he dies—”