Now as the moment of crisis came, more than one saw the madness and slipped back into the shadows to run and hide.
Nahatkim stood by the tavern and watched, seeing the resolve already start to slip away. Without hesitating, he stepped out into the street.
Ivor, at the head of the host, came looming out of the swirling snow, the other boyars beside him. At the sight of the peasants and craftsmen blocking the way, the boyar let out a throaty growl.
"
Disperse,
you damned rebels and cowards. Disperse and go back to your hovels, else you will feel my wrath."
The other boyars looked at Ivor with reproach, and whispered to
themselves
, for surely he must be a poor ruler to have allowed such treason to become more than talk in the taverns, to appear now as armed men in the street.
"I said disperse and go home!" Ivor roared.
The crowd stood silent, nervous, and then in a moment, like snow hitting a fire, the dream melted and the men started to back away.
"You are cattle!" Nahatkim roared, his reedy voice near breaking, and he stepped into the middle of the street facing the peasants.
As one the mob stopped and turned.
"Yes, you are no longer men, you are cattle.
Cattle to the Tugars and slaves to the boyars and the church.
I am ashamed, for I thought there were men here in Suzdal!"
Nahatkim turned to face Ivor, who sat atop his mount, incredulous as if a dog had suddenly found speech to swear at its master.
"You, Ivor Ivorivich, go back to your palace. Do not march to commit murder."
"What?" His bellowing roar came out almost as a question, so astonished was he by the defiance.
"You have forgotten your people, Ivor. You leave us to the plottings of an evil man who has destroyed the truth of our holy mother church. You go to destroy the very thing that could be our salvation from the Tugars. You have betrayed yourself and us. Lead us, Ivor Ivorivich, against our enemies, the Tugars and the church, and we will follow you gladly. If not we will fight."
There was a moment of stunned silence as both sides stood only feet away from each other, each amazed at what was now unfolding.
In his heart Ivor felt a moment of sickening pain, for part of his mind told him that indeed this mad old fool was right, and that his own pride and fear of Rasnar would destroy this chance to stop the Tugars.
But the other part of his soul, the soul that had been raised a
boyar,
Ivor son of Ivor, now held sway and drew him into the path of rage.
Unsheathing his sword, he raised the blade high. Nahatkim did not blanch. A serene smile lighted his features.
"I die a man," he shouted triumphantly as the blade came down and set his soul to flight.
A wild explosive roar echoed up from the street. Before Nahatkim's headless corpse had even crumpled to the ground, the peasants surged forward, shouting with rage. Within seconds Ivor found himself fighting for his life, swinging and cutting, and as each body fell another leaped forward.
A wild scream went up as Boros of Novrod's horse slipped on the wet paving stones and came crashing down. Ilya leaped out from the tavern brandishing a club, and before Boros could
raise
, his helmet was crushed in like brittle parchment, and the boyar went down under the rush.
A boyar had died at the hands of a peasant, and those who could see roared with triumph.
"Kill the boyars, kill the boyars!" the scream echoed and reechoed.
From side alleyways leading into the square, hundreds poured out, and within minutes the sound of battle thundered above the howling of the storm.
Yet clubs, daggers, pitchforks, and wooden spears cannot stand against chain mail and swords, and the weight of soldiers in the square started to be felt.
Grimly the peasants gave ground, while from overhead a torrent of stones, bricks, and furniture rained out of windows onto the heads of the attackers.
Wild shrieks of anguish rent the air. Nobles and warriors, enraged that peasants would dare to strike at them, gave no quarter, smashing down doors, slaying women, spearing children, and the battle started to change into a massacre.
For several minutes he had watched the fighting. The moment the battle had started before the tavern, Casmar's guards had rushed out the door, leaving him alone. He stepped out into the taproom and, spying a back door, opened it and looked out. Several men of arms came charging past him and smashed open the door to a cabin across the street. Casmar was sickened to hear the high piercing shrieks of a woman.
Running into the building, he stood transfixed with horror. A dead child lay upon the floor, its mother screaming in anguish as two of the soldiers, throwing her to the ground, appeared ready to commit rape.
"In the name of
Perm, stop!" Casmar roared.
Leering, one of the soldiers looked up at him.
"Let her go!" Casmar demanded.
"
It's
kill all filthy peasants," the soldier roared back, "kill all these Suzdalian scum, so why waste a little fun first, eh, priest?"
"Leave her be," Casmar replied sharply.
The men hesitated, while the sound of fighting rose up again out in the street.
"Let's go," one of the three said, starting for the door.
The leering soldier looked at Casmar and smiled even as his dagger glided across the woman's throat, ending her cries for mercy.
"You'll have a hell of a parish left by morning, priest," the soldier said, laughing. He wiped the bloody dagger on Casmar's cloak, and then the three, spotting a knot of peasants in the street, charged after them.
"Rasnar," Casmar roared, the word sounding like a curse. "You knew this would happen. It was all part of your plan, you bastard!"
Wildly he ran down the street, dodging past knots of peasants and soldiers. Pulling aside his cloak, he exposed his thin clerical robes. In the confusion it gave him passage, for neither side had yet become so inflamed as to kill a priest.
The south gate was a swirling maelstrom of pushing, shoving bodies. Reaching the wall, he edged his way forward. The mob would surge in upon him till he felt his lungs would burst, and then push out again so he could run another dozen feet.
Reaching the gate at last, he ran on out of the city and down the south road.
Several hundred yards beyond the city he met a knot of Ivor's soldiers who stood in the middle of the road, perplexed by the roar of battle within the city.
"What is it, priest?" an armored warrior asked.
"Ivan's men have betrayed your lord," Casmar gasped. "They're trying to kill him, and the peasants have rallied to his side."
"For Ivor," the guard roared, and the detachment started back for the city.
Turning, he broke into a run. His head started to
swim,
his lungs were filled with fire. His thin doeskin boots could not block the cold, and with each step through the snow he felt as if he were running on hot coals.
Onward the priest ran, till the pain became all-consuming, filling his entire world with agony. Desperately he begged Kesus for strength to keep him going, and as if in answer the world gradually became numb, till finally there was only the snow, unending snow that swirled and coiled about his staggering form.
"They should be done voting by now," Emil said, standing up to look out of the cabin window.
Andrew merely nodded in reply, lost in thought.
"Looks like home out there," Kathleen said, moving over to join the doctor by the window. "How I loved nights like this when I was a child—the noisy city slowly being muffled by a blanket of whiteness."
Drawing away from Emil, she came over to sit by Andrew's side.
"I think it's for the best, Andrew," she said quietly. "Maybe we'll be able to find a place of peace, where there isn't any war to be fought. I think we've been at war so long we've forgotten what peace might be like."
She reached out and touched him lightly on the hand. Startled, he looked up, and their eyes held. So that was it, he now fully realized. It was my being a soldier, killing men, and possibly being killed myself that so thoroughly sealed her off ... and myself as well.
He took her hand in his and smiled.
"Sergeant of the guard, sergeant of the guard!"
The voice was muffled, distant.
Andrew sprang to his feet and raced for the door. Stepping into the street, he saw a knot of men coming toward him out of the snow, bearing a man between them.
Andrew raced up to the group, and was stunned to see that it was Casmar.
"Get him in my cabin!"
Following Andrew, the group pushed into his cabin and laid the man on the table.
Wildly, Casmar looked around the room.
"The city is in riot," Casmar said hoarsely, struggling to sit up.
"How did you get here?" Andrew asked, noticing the bloodstains on his cloak, and the light boots which seemed to be frozen to the man's feet.
"I ran from the city. I tricked the guards to let me pass. The city is in riot," Casmar cried. "The boyars planned to attack you tonight in the snow while you slept. The peasants revolted, led by Kalencka. The soldiers have gone mad—they're killing everyone, men, women,
children
, even those who do not fight. They'll kill everyone, everyone!"
"It could be a trap to lure us out," Hans growled, standing in the doorway.
"Please believe me," Casmar cried. "I saw Kalencka just before the fight—I went to him because I no longer serve Rasnar."
Andrew stared at the man closely, trying to judge.
"As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free," Casmar said softly, looking into Andrew's eyes.
"Where did you hear that?" Andrew asked
,
startled by the words, which stabbed into him like an admonishment.
"Kalencka said his new son, Hawthorne, taught him."
"He's telling the truth," Andrew snapped. "It would have been just like
Hawthorne to teach Kal that song. That damned fool peasant. I told him not to do this."
"They'll lose without your help," Casmar begged. "Rasnar wants Suzdal destroyed to end the power of Ivor."
"Hans, sound assembly," Andrew shouted. "Which company's at the polls?"
"H, sir."
"Have them man the walls. I want everyone else in the square in five minutes. Now move!"
"You've got to stop them," Ivor roared, storming into the church. "They're killing everyone, everyone, innocent and guilty!"
Rasnar turned from the altar and smiled.
"Good, very good.
Let them all die—
Perm will know
his own
."
Ivor, sword in hand, started for the altar. An arrow slashed out from a balcony, dropping Andrei to the ground.
Stunned, Ivor looked at the lifeless body of his son.
Shields raised, Ivor's guards swarmed about their boyar as a shower of death rained down from above.
"My lord, it's Mikhail's men! We'll die in here!"
The men at arms dragged Ivor back, while the boyar bellowed and screamed with grief and rage.
"I know you voted, men, and the ballots have yet to be counted. I've told you what's happening in Suzdal," and he pointed northward, where despite the storm a pulsing glow could be seen on the horizon.
"The city's in flames. Thousands of peasants are dying up there.
Dying to overthrow the boyars, with the dream of fighting the Tugars and winning their freedom.
"I joined the Army of the
Potomac to end slavery," Andrew roared, "and that same war is being fought here, here and now. I'm going up that road, with or without you men. But if you come with me, we're in this fight till the bitter end. Decide here and now where the 35th and 44th stand!"
A wild angry shout went up from the men, their cheers echoing above the fury of the storm.
"I want the regiment formed in the square in ten minutes, full battle load,
eighty
rounds per man. O'Donald, limber up your one piece. Company H and Cromwell's command stay here to guard the camp. Now let's move!"
"We're surrounded! The warriors have cut through to the east wall," Boris shouted, staggering into the leather warehouse that had become the third command position of the night.
Kal looked up from the rough map of the city before him and grimly shook his head.
The terror of what he had unleashed, and the guilt of it, had made him feel that in half a night he had aged twenty years.
In his heart he had known that most of the city would not have chosen to fight. He knew as well that Rasnar had hoped for just such a thing, for the soldiers of the other cities, particularly those under Mikhail, would kill without discrimination, and once that started, those who had wavered would fight out of sheer desperation.