Page 2 of A War Apart

But at least I was alive. Whatever came next, I could manage it, if it meant I could go home to my Mila.

“What do you think they’ll do to us?” I asked. Execution was possible, though unlikely—after the massacre his men had just committed, Miroslav could hardly be eager for more bloodshed. Would he imprison us, or have us beaten and sent home?

The man in the corner gave a humorless bark of laughter. “You’re a fool if you think we’re getting out of here alive. If we’re lucky, they’ll hang us one by one, but most likely they’ll use us for sport. I’ve heard the Vasland army travels with a giant white bear, makes their prisoners fight it bare-handed. They take bets on how long each prisoner will last.”

The boy flinched, his freckled face a mask of terror. “They wouldn’t take us prisoner just to kill us, would they?”

The sandy-haired man grinned. “No one will expect you to last more than a minute, boy. The bear’s massive, a single paw twice the size of your head. One swipe—”

“That’s enough, Boris.” Benedikt threw a protective arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Most likely they’ll ransom us back to our families.”

The words didn’t comfort the boy, whose lip quivered. “My mama’ll never be able to pay a ransom!”

“There’s no need to worry about it now,” Benedikt soothed. “Try to get some sleep now.”

The boy swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and nodded, curling up on the ground and tucking his long coat over his feet. The patches on the coat spoke of years of use. His older brother’s, perhaps, or his father’s?

The old soldier to my right nudged me, his long gray locs brushing against my shoulder as he leaned close enough to speak. “Yakov’s father was killed in the tsar’s service when the war first broke,” he muttered. “As soon as he could, the boy signed up to follow in his father’s footsteps.”

I matched the man’s volume. “You knew his parents?”

“No, he’s in my unit. We’re out of Tsebol, but he came from Selyik, a small town not far from there.”

I looked down in surprise to where the boy’s coat shook with silent sobs. “I’m from Selyik.” Yakov. The name wasn’t familiar, but I didn’t know everyone in the town. Mila would probably know who he was.

“Are you?” The old man raised a bushy gray brow. “Maybe if we get out of this alive, the two of us can see him home safe.” He leaned back against the pen and closed his eyes.

The sandy-haired man had settled in as well. “You should rest, Han,” Benedikt said, turning deep-set eyes toward the camp. “I’ll stay awake in case anything changes, but they’re drunk on victory. They’ll be passing around drinks and women until dawn.”

I nodded. “Wake me in a few hours, and I’ll take the second watch. We should all be rested for whatever happens tomorrow.” I pulled my collar up and shut my eyes for a fitful sleep.

***

I woke to the distant sound of cheers. In the dim moonlight, I saw Benedikt craning his neck between the slats of the pen, looking toward Miroslav’s camp.

“What is it?” I scrambled to my feet as the others started to stir.

“Miroslav,” Benedikt spat. “I guess he wanted to get an early start greeting the troops. Middle of the night and he’s out theresoaking up all the praise. He probably figured they’d be too drink-sick in the morning to cheer for him.”

I peered toward the camp, but I could see nothing through the tents but the glow of their fires. A tall soldier walked toward us and barked something at the two sentries who slept near the middle pens. They leapt to their feet.

The newcomer thrust a long rope into one sentry’s hands and gestured for the other to open the pen. The prisoners—my fellow soldiers—stood against the wooden slats of their cage as our captors tied them wrist to wrist, linking them together. They repeated the process in each stall, forming a chain of prisoners.

When they reached our pen, they bound me between Benedikt and the boy, Yakov.

“What are—” Yakov began, but a sharp blow to his cheek cut him off.

“Shut up,” the tall soldier ordered.

With prods and pushes, they shepherded us toward the camp. As we approached the tents and Miroslav’s soldiers caught sight of us, they jeered. A rock hit my temple, but the pull of the rope kept me from turning to look for the source. Not that it mattered. There was nothing I could do in response.

The further we walked, the more men surrounded us, until at last we reached the center of the camp. We stopped moving, and I looked around at the tents, all in various shades of gray, illuminated by the fire in front of us. On the other side of the fire, a large man lounged in an even larger chair.

The soldier who had collected us spoke. “You are in the presence of Tsar Miroslav Vyacheslavovich of the Blood, Heir of the Sanctioned and rightful ruler of Inzhria.”

Miroslav might claim to be our rightful ruler, but I would never accept him. He was a monster. Benedikt swore, and someone behind us kicked him.

Miroslav stood and clapped his hands together. He had straight black hair, like his brother, but that was where the resemblance ended. Borislav was tall and muscular, his bearing that of a lifelong soldier. Miroslav, on the other hand, was short and stout, better suited to a feast table than a military camp.

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