Page 60 of A War Apart

“Otets has charged us to make a Disinheritance,” Borislav went on, as if his brother hadn’t spoken. “If you surrender now, you won’t be punished. Accept your Disinheritance, and all your needs will be met. But you must allow me to rule. For the good of the realm.”

“Do you honestly believe your self-righteous drivel? You want the throne for your own glory. You think that because our father favored you, you deserve to be tsar. The birthright ismine!”His voice became louder, more shrill with every word. “You won’t win this, Borislav. I defeated you before, and I will again. Or have you forgotten Barbezht?”

The tsar beckoned me and Yakov forward. “I haven’t forgotten, brother. Have you?”

Miroslav stared collectedly at us. “I wondered where they had gone. No matter. I found the rest.” Turning his horse, he nodded to the hooded driver, who climbed down from his seat at the front of the sleigh and opened the door. A guard came out, followed by a group of men changed together by their ankles. Another guard followed them.

The prisoners’ hands weren’t chained. As I watched them approach, I realized with a sinking feeling that each of the men was missing his right hand. One man was familiar; his deep-set eyes held an expression of resignation, contrasted with the terror on his companions’ faces.

“Boris Stepanovich,” I breathed. Yakov and I shared a look of horror.

The remaining survivors of Barbezht. So few. I’d known only a handful of men had survived, but was it really so few? Eleven men, plus me and Yakov. Only thirteen survivors, of the hundreds of men who had taken the field for Tsar Borislav.

Borislav had recognized the men as well. He sat straighter on his horse, meeting each man’s eyes in turn. “My friends, I’m so sorry for the indignities you’ve been forced to suffer in the wars between my brother and me.”

“You can end this,” Miroslav said. “Their lives are in your hands. Surrender, and I’ll release them. They knelt to me at Barbezht; I won’t hold your latest treason against them.”

He would never let them go. Borislav had to know that. I gritted my teeth, wishing I could drive a sword between the monster’s ribs.

My tsar closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if to steady himself. He looked at his brother. “No, Miroslav. Their lives are in your hands. I cannot and will not surrender.”

Miroslav nodded over his shoulder, and the guards drew long daggers from their belts. “This is your last chance. Surrender, or they die.”

Borislav turned to the prisoners. “I am sorry. May Otets receive you.” He raised a hand in blessing.

“See what cowardice,” Miroslav sneered. “He would rather sacrifice thousands in war than die himself.” He waved a hand at the guards. “Kill them.”

The prisoners erupted in cries for mercy that pierced my heart. What if I hadn’t gone to Tsebol in search of the tsar? Would I have been kneeling there, begging for my life? I forced myself to watch as the guards stepped behind the first two men and sliced their throats. Their bodies thudded onto the ground, twitching as blood stained the snow crimson. Man by man they went down, until only Boris Stepanovich remained. His eyes remained fixed on our tsar, and Borislav met his gaze,unflinching. He didn’t fight as the guard grabbed him by the hair and forced his head back. The knife tore through his throat, and his body dropped to the snow.

Miroslav turned back to his brother. “After I defeat you, you’ll suffer the same fate, and your head will hang above the gates of Idesk.”

Borislav didn’t respond. I couldn’t look away from the blood freezing in pools, the limp bodies of my brothers-in-arms. Anger roared in my ears, and my fist was so tight around the reins that my nails split the skin of my palm. Miroslav was a monster. A beast. He deserved to burn.

Over the thunder of rage in my head, I heard Radomir say, “This is why we’re making a Disinheritance, cousin. You’ve abandoned Otets’ precepts, and so He has abandoned you.”

The tsar, still silent, turned his horse and rode back to the army. Tearing my gaze from the scene of the massacre, I joined the rest of Borislav’s men, following him back to our line.

When we reached the assembled men, Radomir stopped. “Soldiers!” he began, but the tsar stopped him.

Borislav touched the tip of his staff to his throat. “My friends.” His voice, magically amplified, made me flinch. “My friends, today my brother has yet again committed an atrocity against the subjects entrusted to him by Otets. Rather than face his Disinheritance with honor, he brought prisoners, innocents, hoping to force me to surrender by threatening their lives. Thirteen men survived the battle of Barbezht. Moments ago, while they knelt before him, Miroslav killed eleven of them.”

He paused, looking up and down the lines with fire in his eyes. I saw soldiers glance at me and Yakov, and guilt and rage twisted in my gut. Guilt for surviving, and rage at Miroslav for making it so. All those hundreds of men that had gone onto the field at Barbezht, and only Yakov and I remained.

“I am filled with a righteous fury,” the tsar went on, face contorted with the depth of his emotion. “My brother and all who condone such actions deserve to pay for what has been done today. I would ride at your head, bringing Otets’ justice to the army opposite us!” As a cheer went up, he raised his staff, turning his eyes to the sky. Radomir scowled, his eyes narrowed in warning.

Borislav lowered his staff, and the army quieted. “But I heed the counsel of my advisors. They temper my anger, urging me not to risk our cause by placing myself in danger. So, reluctant though I am, I leave this battle in the capable hands of each one of you. I have done all I can; the rest is up to you.

“Know this, my friends: Prince Radomir will lead you well, Otets will guard you well, and you will acquit yourselves well. And when this war is over, you will know that it was won not because you had a Sanctioned at your head, but because each and every one of you fought for justice, for mercy, and for Inzhria!”

“For Inzhria!” the men echoed. For our homeland. The cry repeated as we rode through the troops back to the camp. I kept my eyes trained on the ground. I couldn’t face the anger and blame in the soldiers’ faces. Why should I, of all those who fought at Barbezht, be alive? I couldn’t even fight this battle.

Among the cries of “For Inzhria,” I heard another phrase. “For Barbezht!” My head jerked up, and I looked around for the source of the cry. The men nearby were watching me, their eyes blazing with anger, though not at me. Each man whose eyes I met nodded or saluted. Their rage was targeted toward Miroslav, toward the enemy. The kind of fury that would keep them alive through the battle. A righteous anger, a fire that would burn through all that stood against it. They weren’t angry at me, they were angryforme.

I sat up straighter in the saddle, returning the salutes of the men I passed. I couldn’t fight this battle, but they could. They would fight for me.

Chapter twenty-two

Miroslav's Return

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