Beautiful noises that signify an ugly truth.
These bandits are trained soldiers, deserted from Peter’s imperial army and making a living by preying on travelers. Wearing dark kaftans with red sashes crossed over their chests, the mustached men ride fearlessly with well-worn sabers hanging from their hips. Each is equipped with two saddle-mounted Muscovite flintlock pistols. The leader wears a steel cuirass over his chest and carries a long carbine. The rest carry simple Hussar lances.
“To fight them is not logical,” Elena whispers.
“There is no logic to death,” I say, “but there can be honor in it.”
Pursued by Catherine’s imperial guard, we took a risk and fled across the rolling steppes. We hoped to disappear into the emptiness, but we knew this could happen. Favorini warned us over and over. Our goal has never been simply to survive…we must always protect the secret of our true existence.
The bandit separates from the others, gallops toward us with one hand on the pommel of his saber.
“Stay low, Elena. Survive the onslaught,” I say. “After I am finished, surprise them if you can. If they take you, hide your face.”
“Yes, Peter,” she says.
I shove my cloak to the side, drawing my khanjali. The dagger is double-edged, eleven inches of silver-engraved steel with a pale ivory handle. Long and short, both my hands now sprout fangs.
I am ready.
The horseman yanks the reins and his mount comes to a prancing stop fifty yards away. Steam rises from the black flank of his horse. The others are staying back, eyes sunken under their red hats, watching this sport from a distance.
They expect us to cower. Their voices drift to me on the wind, mushrooms of mist sprouting from bearded faces. I hear a short bark of laughter.
Eyeing my blades, the bandit hesitates. He reaches for his flintlock pistols. Instantly, I lower my nearly seven-foot frame to a knee and place my long and short blades flat on the wet grass. The backs of my hands are made of leather, stained dark with the rain. I can see the wire ropes moving beneath them, creating ridges like foothills. But the man is too far away to guess at what I am.
The bandit leaves his pistols holstered.
As he approaches, I keep my palms pressed to the damp grass. Elena stands at my side. On the open plain with short blades, unarmored, she has no chance in this fight. Her hand is a small weight on my shoulder, like a perched bird.
“Go now,” I tell her, and the sparrow flies.
The lead rider leans into a gallop, closing the distance to where I crouch, waiting on the fertile emptiness of the steppe. I do not look up from where my blades lie as the muscled forelegs of a black horse approach. The beast slows and stops beside me, spraying dirt. The rider does not bother to speak. I hear the slow skim of his blade leaving its scabbard. Hear the creak of his armor as he reaches back, lifting the blade high into the gray-green air.
The bandit lowers his arm and his breath expels as he swings the blade—the motion mechanically pushing air from his diaphragm. At this moment, I roll toward his horse, snaking my long arms over the grass to grip the handles of my blades. The strike misses me, its wake shivering through my hair.
On my knees, I lift the short blade and draw a red line across the horse’s belly. In the same motion, I fall onto my back and shove myself out of the way, watching the surprised face of the rider from below.
Screaming, the horse rears with a slashed belly. A cloud of steam billows up as a flood of hot viscera hits the grass. The rider rolls backward off his falling mount. The horse’s legs buckle and it collapses, unconscious, into its own offal.
The armored horseman is already gaining his feet when I bring the hilt of my short blade down on the crown of his head. His fur-lined helmet shatters the bridge of his nose and he bites off the tip of his tongue. I am already sliding my dagger over his throat, gauging the distance to the sound of pounding hooves.
I dive over both corpses as a hail of hooves spears into the mud around me. Another horse passes by and I hear the shouting of angry men. They will not stop until we are dead now. Standing a little way off, Elena is shouting as well. Her high-pitched voice repeats the same word—almost a melody.
Poshchady! Poshchady!
Mercy, she is screaming.
As blades whistle by overhead, I fall to the wet plain. I scramble onto my hands and knees, sharp hooves flashing over me. Before I can stand, a hoof stamps my sword hand into the dirt.
Two of my fingers are left behind, severed and shining in a muddy crater.
Pulling my shattered fist tight to my chest, I stagger to my feet and raise the shashka with my other hand. The nearest bandit makes a prancing turn and rounds on me. His thighs clenching, the rider leans in his saddle—red sash snapping in the wind as he gains speed.
Silver flashes against black clouds as his saber leaves its scabbard.
I hold my position as the quake of hooves rolls toward me. The bulk of the warhorse is a blur, its breath snorting from flared nostrils as it strains to carry the armored rider at top speed.
I turn, dropping to avoid the bandit’s saber.
Too late. I feel a tug between my shoulder blades. The rider’s saber connects, parts my kaftan, and splits the armor beneath. Broken ringlets of my breastplate scatter past my face like a handful of shining coins.
But my shashka remains up and steady. Its single honed edge slides along the rider’s unarmored thigh. As he gallops away, the leg bounces curiously. It is dangling from nerve endings and tendon. The rider reaches for the wound, grunting at the sight of the injury. As his horse turns in place, craning to look back, the rider rolls out of the saddle. He hits the ground and now the leg comes off, coating the electric green grass with arterial blood.
The horse backs away from its fallen rider, confused.
There is no pain in me. Only awareness. Three more riders are on the attack. My left arm is hanging uselessly now, damaged by the wide gash that lies across my shoulder blades. I stumble and try to catch myself, but my hand is shattered.
I fall onto my stomach, face-first into the muddy plain. Stalks of grass tickle the rough leather of my cheek. This close, I can see that the blades of grass are dancing, vibrating as approaching hooves pound the dirt.
I have done my best, and failed.
“Peter!” shouts Elena. A few yards away, she is a small hump of black coat on a rolling sea of green. I wave my mutilated hand.
“Go,” I gasp.
Arching my body, I lift up and roll onto my back.
“Mercy!” shouts Elena.