Chapter Text
The rest of the morning Emery idly listens to the stories Elena and Roman tell her. She kept her eyes on the road. Watching for any suspicious activity. Nobody even gave them a backward glance. Most travelers kept their heads down against the cold of the incoming winter air. The winter fete will be in a few months. She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. When she was younger she used to sneak out with her friend Nik to see the world in the way the children do. A world full of magic and light. That illusion was shattered the moment they stepped onto the streets of Os Alta. There are many things Emery can’t remember, but the look of the five-year-old child dying of starvation would never leave her. The people starve and can barely scrape enough money to survive yet the Tsar does nothing but sit on his fat ass in his diamond-encrusted palace to host parties with the country's enemies.
She sighs. There is nothing that she can do about it. Unwillingly, her eyes find Solovev in the crowd. He is staring at Igor like the man has grown two heads. Igor has his back to everyone else but he appears to be saying something. She looks at Fedyor. He gives her a reassuring smile and motions for her to join him upfront. “Excuse me,” She tells Elena and Roman before leading her horse next to Fedyor. “How are you, Miss. Tarasova?” Fedyor asks. “I am good. How are you?” She replies automatically.
“I am well though I am wondering how much longer you want us to travel along the Vy.” She scans her surroundings and pulls out her map. She is fairly certain she knows how long it will take them to reach Balakirev at this pace. “We’ll travel west on the Vy for another four miles before heading into Balakirev,” She tells him and points at it on the map. Fedyor tracks the movement of her finger before nodding. Traveling this way would limit the time it would take to get to the base. With the deep winter threatening to set in, making it there and back in as little time as possible is ideal.
The rest of the day went by slowly and painfully as more travelers rose to go about their daily lives. The more travelers on the Vy the worse the beating in Emery’s head got. They spent two days on the Vy traveling from Os Alta to Balakirev. Her mood didn’t improve much once they left the bustle of the main drag. The pathway to Balakirev was more weather-worn than anticipated. They had to dismount and hike through the brush to get to the little tavern they were staying at now. Solovev had taken to subtly tormenting her. Stepping on her heels, telling stories about a certain tidemaker who had a series of mishaps in summoning class. He never included her name but she knew he was talking about her. She prayed to the saints that she kept her composure and no one else found out.
The last thing she needed was for the older grisha and the first army soldiers to know she’d done more to Bagra than almost drown her. Elena and Roman had stayed by her side the whole day which she found quite nice. The other grisha made their rounds introducing themselves too. It took some coaxing but the first army members eventually joined the conversations. They proved to be quite funny. Solovev had disagreed when he saw her laughing at one of their jokes. His lack of humor didn’t surprise her, but she kept her mouth shut.
She doesn’t need him trying to undermine her while she’s on a mission. When they had gotten to the inn the grisha grumbled about having to triple up. There was nothing the innkeeper could do there just weren’t enough rooms available for each to get their own. Emery wasn’t too displeased as she was able to room with Elena and Amelia, a sweet squaller. Emery was glad she didn’t have to room with Zoya or Solovev. She just hoped she didn’t have one of her nightmares. That would be embarrassing if she woke up screaming.
While Emery was getting settled some of the older grisha, including Elena, had gone down to the bar to get some drinks. Fedyor knocked on her door. “I’ll only be a moment. I wanted to say that you’ve been doing a good job navigating this mission. Handling Igor is no easy thing and you handled it with grace. Good Job Miss. Tarasova,” Fedyor had told her with a smile. That had made her beam. She’d nearly tackled him in a hug, which he reciprocated after a moment. She’d been certain he’d come to tell her off. She’d worried herself into a stomach ache thinking that she had been doing a terrible job. Fedyor’s reassurance was a welcome reprieve to those anxieties. The group tried not to draw attention to themselves. The beating in Emery’s head only grew worse as the night progressed. She’d almost sobbed when she realized she’d forgotten her medicine.
She was thankful the room was empty when she realized. It would have been so embarrassing for her to start crying over her medicine in front of the others. She would have felt like such a baby. There was a knock on her door. To her dismay when she opened it Solovev was standing in the hallway. “Hello pet,” He said. The beating of her head worsened the moment she opened the door. She didn’t have it in her to deal with his shenanigans. She shut the door in his face. She only opened it after twenty minutes of his incessant knocking. “What do you want?” she asked. He grinned at her, “Did you really think those first army guys were funny?” He answered. He smelled of kvas. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, Parker and Flippe are funny,” Emery responded. “But not funnier than me?” Solovev asked. Emery frowned. It was well past midnight, he swayed on his feet, he must have been drunk. “Most of your jokes are at my expense of course I don’t find it funny.”
Solovev leaned haphazardly on the door frame. His eyelids drooping and his face crestfallen. “I suppose you’re right. Would you think I’m funny if I didn’t do that?” She shrugged. “Only one way to find out,” She replied and shut the door. After that night the group spent the next three days traversing the beaten paths towards Ryevost. To avoid being caught in snow Fedyor set a grueling pace. The lodging in Ryevost was a blessed reprieve after spending three days on a horse. Emery slid from her mount as gracefully as her stiff muscles allowed. Her back and legs ached. They spent the night in an inn at Ryevost. Some of the older grisha had drinks in the tavern but nothing else happened. They were making good time and Emery was grateful for it. She was grateful that Fedyor was the head of this mission. She wasn’t sure she could handle it.
…
Her dreams are fitful. Sometimes the Darkling visits her, telling her stories or teaching her how to summon. Sometimes a little girl with blond hair visits her. She doesn’t pay much attention to it. She focuses on the road as she and Fedyor ride next to one another. Emery points towards the path they would be taking. Fedyor nods his head and motions for the group to continue .
Ever since the first day Roman and Elena had taken to riding with her. Solovev remained on the other side of the group with Zoya, who occasionally sent nasty looks at Emery. She ignored them for the most part. As they drew nearer to the fort the quieter the group became. The forest was silent, almost as if it were holding its breath. It put Emery on edge. Fedyor put his hand up signaling for them to stop. They stop in formation and listen. Emery puts her hand on her knife as she hears the shifting of the brush .
Something is coming toward them and fast. Her fellow grisha raise their arms ready to summon. Parker and Flippe raise their rifles. The sound gets louder. Two figures in olive drab coats crash through the brush. They freeze at the sight of them. They wore the military drab of the king's army. “Hold,” Fedyor commands. The soldiers freeze. One of them has doe brown eyes and curly blonde stained red as blood drips from a wound on his temple. The other is clutching his stomach. He has dark hair cut in a standard military style. He looks a bit older than the other one, sporting some stubble. Dark stains cover both their uniforms. “Identify yourself,” Fedyor commands. “You identify yourself,” The one with the head wound says. “Corporal Fedyor Kaminsky of the second army,” Fedyor replies stoicly. He gestures to the group. “This is my unit,” He introduces. The soldiers look at them with suspicion.
“Grisha you said? Prove it,” The same soldier says. Fedyor nods to Amelia. She raises her arms and summons a wind that shakes the snow off some of the trees. Their eyes widen. “Saints,” the one with the stomach wound swears. “If you’re second army where are your keftas?” The one with the head wound questions. Fedyor opens his pack to reveal his red kefta . The rest of them do the same. Emery isn’t sure if she imagined it but Igor glares at her. She keeps an eye on the treeline. These men might wear the uniform of the First Army, but it doesn’t mean they’re friends.
“There has been an increase in drüskelle sightings. The lack of keftas is for our protection,” Fedyor replies calmly. Emery doesn’t miss the muscle tick in some of the grisha’s faces. Igor is practically a tomato with how red his face is . A muscle bulges in his forehead. For saint's sake a kefta doesn’t make you grisha, the coats are safer. Emery keeps her thoughts to herself as she fights to keep her face neutral. She doesn’t miss the way the soldiers grimace at the mention of the drüskelle. Why would that be?
“Identify yourselves, soldiers,” Fedyor repeats. “Private Luke Volkov. Twenty-first regiment of the King’s army,” The soldier with the wound on his temple says. “Private Boris Orlov. Twenty-first regiment of the King’s Army,” He says. His voice is weak. The stain on his stomach is getting larger. Luke steps under Boris's arm to support him. Fedyor and Delphi slip off their horses and start to approach the soldiers. Elena is by Emery’s side now. Emery tries to read her expression to see what she makes of this but the older girl is scanning their surroundings.
Delphi steps forward her hands raised. They flinch back. Emery frowns. Delphi doesn’t look phased. “Delphi is going to heal you boys,” Fedyor commands. His voice is strong and lacks its usual warmth. It sends a shiver down her back. A muscle ticks in Igor’s jaw and he bawls his fist. They were all soldiers of the same army. The hate against otkazat’sya was foolish. They bleed the same . Emery keeps her thoughts to herself. She doesn’t release her hold on her dagger. Something made these men abandon their infantry. “Where is the rest of your regiment?” Fedyor asks as Delphi lifts Boris's shirt to see the wound. There is too much blood. Emery looks away. The wound is a jagged slash on the stomach. “We were stationed at the fort, sir. They came out of nowhere sir,” Luke answers. A pit forms in her stomach. Who came? Boris hisses as Delphi takes a disinfectant to his wound. Noda is by her side now.
“Who came?” Fedyor probes. “Fjerdans, Sir. Must of been at least fifty of them. My unit and some of the second army held them off but not for long. When one fell another seemed to take his place,” Luke replies. The terror in his eyes was clear . The pit in her stomach grows with each word Luke speaks. No wonder there have been more drüskelle sightings. “They picked off our grisha first, rounded them up. Chained them where they couldn’t move,” Luke says. His voice is unsteady. His eyes are glistening. “We fought them but there were too many. We didn’t know they were there until it was too late,” Luke continues. Fedyor approaches Luke slowly as if he were some frightened animal that would bolt at any second.
“Where is the rest of your regiment private?” Fedyor asks. A distant look passes in Luke’s eyes. “Dead or captured,” he moans miserably. Emery tightens her hold on her reins. Her horse, кекс *muffin* shifts and whinnies. She loosens her grip. The group has gone very still. Drüskelle is not something she has had to deal with since she was a child, but she’s heard enough stories. Read enough casualty reports to have her stomach clench and her palms sweat. She glances at Solovev. His face is calm but there is tension in the way he holds himself. He looks at her, eyes roving over her face. She straightens trying to appear as casual as him. It must not have worked because he glances around and then winks at her. Her brow furrows and he smiles at her. She rolls her eyes and looks away. H ow could he be so glib after hearing about a drüskelle attack? Anger stirs within her. She latches onto it like a lifeline. Anger is better than fear. How dare the Fjerdans attack them and how dare Solovev treat it like a joke.
Noda and Delphi step away from Boris. He looks significantly better. He can stand on his own two feet and when he lifts his shirt the wound is gone. All that is left is an uneven white scar across his stomach. Delphi is by Luke’s side now. Running her fingers across the wound on his temple. “Thank you, soldier,” Fedyor says. He turns to Boris. “Private Boris report,” Fedyor commands. Boris hesitates then complies. “There’s not much more to tell. We were lucky to escape with our lives,” He says grimly.
“So you’re deserters,” Igor accuses. Both men straighten and flush. Boris balls his fists. “We are not deserters. We ran to get help,” Luke nearly shouted. He is shaking now, shaking with anger. Igor scoffs, earning him glares from Fedyor, Elena, and Roman. Solovev is the picture of calm. Zoya looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. “How long ago was the attack?” Fedyor asks. His voice was calm and warm.
Luke gulps and opens his mouth but it’s Boris who responds, “A few hours ago. Early morning before the sun had come up.” Luke nods. “How many grisha did they capture?” Fedyor asks. “Around twenty. Give or take a few,” Luke answers. “How many first army?” Fedyor asks. “Not sure. At Least five,” Boris responds. Fedyor nods. “Thank you, soldiers,” He says before turning to the rest of his company. Parker and Flippe move to stand next to Luke and Boris. The rest of the grisha gathered around Fedyor.
“Orders Corporal,” Roman asks Fedyor. “We have to inform the Darkling,” Fedyor responds his eyes distant. “I say we raid the base and kill the drüskelle,” Igor says and rams his fist into his palm. “We don’t have the numbers to match the Fjerdans,” Roman argues. “What happens if we go back, tell the Darkling, and get a larger force to take back the fort?” Solovev asks.
Emery shakes her head and looks at Solovev. She meets his eyes. “That would take too long. By the time we’d be back, the Fjerdans would have tripled their forces and the hostages would be dead. Our advantage is that they don’t know we’re here. We should use it,” Emery says as if they were back in the classroom and Solovev had misinterpreted the reading material. She shrinks back when she notices everyone’s eyes on her. She’s not in the classroom . She’s out on a mission and drüskelle is going to try to kill her.
“She’s right,” Elena says. “We could destroy the fort,” Amelia, a squaller with mousy brown hair and doll-like eyes, says. Elena looks scandalized. Amelia flushes, “I know it’s not ideal but it’s an option,” She says. “We won’t hide from a fight,” Igor says stubbornly. Emery doesn’t like the sound of any of these plans. She rubs her temple as the beating in her head worsens. They don’t have the manpower to fight dozens of drüskelle but they can’t leave the hostages. Ivelina and Nadim are fabrikators. They don’t have any combat training. They’d be a liability if the group decided to fight, but the fabrikator’s ability to unlock doors would be useful if they snuck onto the base. That was it.
Intense arguments had broken out between the Grisha and the first army. Emery tries to clear her throat and get people’s attention. It doesn’t work. Roman and Igor are arguing about fighting or getting back up. Amelia, Sasha, and Elena are arguing about destroying the base. Zoya is arguing with Iveline, Nadim, and Noda. Her storm blue eyes alight with a fierceness Emery’s never seen.
Fedyor is back on his horse silently observing each argument. Delphi is still on the ground, next to the first army soldiers. Parker is watching them with eagle eyes. Solovev has managed to worm his way next to her. He’s silent too. She clears her throat again, “excuse me. I have an idea!” she shouts to be heard. It’s no use. The drüskelle will find them if this racket continues like this. She glances at Solovev. He’s looking at her. Without looking away from her he jerks his reins causing his horse to neigh and stamp loudly. It draws the attention of them all. Some of them look exasperated at the outburst. Though Solovev’s face is casual Emery can see the slight flush working its way up his neck.
She takes the sudden silence as the opportunity to speak. “I have an idea,” She says. “We won’t be able to take the base back by ourselves so we send one of the fabrikators and anyone who can’t fight to get reinforcements while the rest sneak onto the base and free the hostages,” She rushes out. Igor scowls but a Fedyor and surprisingly Solovev nod. “How would we get in?” Roman asks. She feels a pang of betrayal despite it being a perfectly reasonable concern. “The same way the drüskelle did,” She replies, trying to not let her voice crack. One of her hands has started shaking. She grips her saddle to keep the others from seeing it. A few of them have shocked expressions. Igor still looks angry. Fedyor looks like he’s contemplating it. Zoya looks like she is going to murder her. Better Zoya then the drüskelle , she thinks grimly.
“How are we supposed to do that if they don’t know where the drüskelle came in?” Zoya says mockingly. Emery flushes slightly but she turns her attention to Luke and Boris. “Private Volkov and Private Orlov, do you remember where the fighting started?” Emery questions. Her voice comes out more confident than she feels. “The north side of the fort. There is no gate there so there are usually fewer watchmen posted,” Boris responds. “That’s our way in,” Emery says. The grisha looks at her skeptically. A part of her deflates. She should have kept her mouth shut.
“That’s how waste leaves the base. There’s a chute that goes outside the wall,” Luke adds. “That’s probably how they got in,” Elena says. “Dozens of huge drüskelle crawling through a tiny and probably frost-slick tunnel?” Andonov says skeptically. “Even if they didn’t get in that way, we’ve got plenty of squallers and inferni to make it possible,” Emery interjects. “Right now time is out friend. The Fjerdans won’t be expecting an attack this soon,” She is interrupted by Sasha. “How do you figure that?” He asks.
“Private Volkov and Private Orlov haven’t appeared to be followed, either the drüskelle don’t know they escaped or they think they’ll have more time. The closest settlement is Ryevost which is at least a day on foot, if the Fjerdans know they got away they’ll think they have a day not a few hours. If they don’t know they escaped then as far as the Fjerdans are concerned they have plenty of time because nobody knows the base has been taken over,” she explains. Her heart swells when she sees most of them nodding. Solovev is looking at her the way he always does like she is a puzzle box that has a prize in the center that he gets if he unravels all the puzzles. “I have a plan,” Emery says. Fedyor nods. “Very well Miss. Tarasova let us hear it,” He says.