The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3) - Katherine Arden Page 0,93

Olya,” she said.

“I’ll be all right,” said Olga firmly. “God go with you.” Her hands clasped in prayer.

Vasya let go her sister’s hand and came up beside Dmitrii Ivanovich, in line with his men.

The men were holding the dead things off with spears, looks of sick terror on their faces, but Dmitrii had to step forward to behead one, and another ran up, taking advantage of the break in the line.

Vasya shut her fists and forgot that the dead thing was not burning.

The creature caught like a torch, then another, a third. They didn’t burn long; the rain put out the fire and the dead things were still coming, blackened and moaning.

But Dmitrii saw. As the nearest dead thing caught fire, his sword sheared through water and flame, glittering, and cut off the thing’s head.

He shot Vasya a grin of unfeigned delight. There was blood on his cheek. “I knew you had unclean powers,” he said.

“Be grateful, cousin,” Vasya retorted.

“Oh, I am,” said the Grand Prince of Moscow, and his smile put heart in her, despite the drenching rain, the dooryard packed with nightmarish things. He surveyed the dooryard. “But I hope you have better than little fires—cousin.”

She found herself smiling at the acknowledged kinship, even as Dmitrii buried his sword in another upyr, leaping back to the protection of his men’s spears at the last moment. She set three more alight, horribly, only for the rain to douse them again. The dead things were wary now of the men’s blades, and deathly afraid of Morozko’s hands. But the death-god was only a wraith in the rain, a black shape remote and terrible, and already six living men were down, not moving.

The Bear had grown gigantic, fatted with summer’s heat, with sickness and suffering, and to Vasya his voice seemed louder than the thunder, urging his army on. Medved did not look like a man anymore; he wore the shape of a bear, shoulders broad enough to blot out the stars.

Dmitrii put his sword through another one, but it stuck. He refused to relinquish it, and Vasya dragged him back to the safety of the square of guards just in time. The square had shrunk.

“You are both bleeding,” said Olga, only a slight tremor in her voice, and Vasya, glancing down, saw that she was; her arm was grazed, and Dmitrii’s cheek.

“Never fear, Olga Vladimirova,” said Dmitrii to her. He was smiling still, bright and calm, and Vasya understood anew why her brother gave this man such loyalty.

From the ring of guards, a man screamed, and Morozko leaped, too late to save him. The Bear laughed even as Morozko flung the dead thing down. Still more were coming into the dooryard.

“Where is Sasha now?” Vasya demanded of Dmitrii.

“Gone to the monastery for Sergei, of course,” said the Grand Prince. “I sent him as soon as the priest went mad. A good thing too. Yon’s the work of holy men, not warriors; we’re going to die if we don’t get help.” He said this quite matter-of-factly: a general weighing his force’s chances. But then his narrow-eyed gaze found Konstantin, who was standing motionless beside the Bear’s hulking shadow. There was death in it. The dead took no notice of the priest.

“I knew the priest was up to something, the way he harped on my cousin’s wickedness,” said Dmitrii. He took off another dead thing’s head, speaking in grunts. “I had Sasha thrown in prison just to draw Konstantin out. When I went down to see him, Sasha told me everything. In the nick of time too. I thought the priest a bit of a charlatan. But I never would have thought—”

To Dmitrii, it looked as though Konstantin were doing it all himself, controlling the dead. He couldn’t see the Bear. Vasya knew better. She could see Konstantin’s face tormented in the flashes of lightning; she could see the Bear’s too, ferocious, joyful, indomitable.

Vasya said, “I must get to Konstantin. He is standing beside the devil that is causing all this. But I cannot cross the dooryard alive.”

Dmitrii pursed his lips. But he did not speak. After a brief pause, he nodded once, turned and began giving his men crisp orders.

* * *

“YOU HAVE NO POWER over the dead,” whispered the voice of the dvorovoi in Konstantin’s ear. Konstantin barely flinched at the sound, so lost was he in horror. “But you have power over him.”

Slowly, Konstantin turned. “Do I?”

“Your blood,” said the dvorovoi, “will bind the devil. You are