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The tsar nodded at the executioner, and the trapdoor swung open. Il’ich dangled in the air, legs swinging wildly. By design, the distance hadn’t been enough to snap his neck, and he clawed at the noose with his bound hands. The air left my own lungs as I watched. I could practically feel the noose about my neck, as though I hung next to him.
After what felt like an eternity, the executioner cut him loose. He fell to the ground, limp but still conscious—barely. The guards hauled him into a sitting position as the executioner approached, a large, curved knife in his hand. Il’ich opened his mouth in a silent plea, his eyes bulging.
With the first slice, I looked away. I couldn’t watch as they disemboweled him. Yakov hadn’t moved, but as Il’ich’s innards splattered, he leaned over and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground.
Trying to block out the sound of the slaughter, I watched the crowd. Several of them looked as nauseous as Yakov. The only unmoved observer was the tsar, who stood silent and expressionless, his hands by his side. Even Radomir looked slightly green beneath his dark beard.
I risked a glance at the gallows but immediately wished I hadn’t. Il’ich’s body—I assumed the man was dead by now, as he wasn’t moving—lay prone on the snow, his stomach and groinlike raw mincemeat, with entrails spilling out. The executioner had just begun the process of hacking the body into four pieces.
“How can you watch this?” Yakov muttered.
I glanced at my friend. His skin was pallid, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Even his freckles had paled. “I’m not.”
There was another squelching sound, and Yakov doubled over again, retching.
Finally, mercifully, the process was done. The tsar turned away as the guards tossed the disassembled body into a wheelbarrow. Still the crowd didn’t move, as silent as the early moments of a Prophet’s Day service. The tsar and his cousin walked back to the castle, but only once they had disappeared through the gate did the onlookers begin to disperse.
Yakov and I were the last to leave. He wiped his face with his sleeve as the body—what was left of it, at least—was carted away to be scattered for the crows.
“I thought Barbezht was bad,” Yakov said as we, too, finally left. “This was so much worse than anything we saw there.”
The smell of roasting flesh and the sound of Benedikt’s screams filled my mind. I wasn’t sure this had been worse, but it certainly wasn’t better.
Borislav was supposed to be better.
Rather than returning to the castle, we headed for the camp surrounding it. I hadn’t seen most of the men since our return, and I wanted to gauge the mood in the camp for myself. Between Miroslav’s threat, the desertions, and the numerous executions, I didn’t expect it to be good.
Despite the early hour, the camp was busy. Men, seated outside their tents, sharpened swords and axes and repaired leather armor. The clash of steel rang out somewhere out of sight as others honed their battle skills, and the smell of campfire smoke mingled with the scent of various breakfasts.
In front of one such campfire, we found Konstantin Anatolyevich, the baker from Tsebol, stirring a small iron pot. He offered a wide grin and waved us over.
“Han! How are you?”
I forced myself to return the smile. “Morning, Kostya. You remember Yakov?”
“Of course, of course. Won’t you join me for breakfast?” He gestured for us to take a seat. “Nothing so nice as fresh-baked bread from my baker, but war has its consequences.” He chuckled at his own joke.
I glanced at Yakov, whose face was still green. “No, thank you. We’ve eaten.”
“What brings you to the camp so early?”
I grimaced. “We went to the execution.”
Kostya’s cheerful pink face turned grim. “Ah. Awful business, one of the tsar’s commanders betraying him like that.”
I nodded once. The reasons behind Il’ich’s betrayal must not have circulated through camp yet. “I hear it’s been a difficult few weeks.”
“I think a lot of us are worried for our families, with Miroslav’s latest edict. I told Ulyana to stay with her family while I’m gone. I hope Mila Dmitrievna is safe?”
“As safe as she can be.” I didn’t meet the baker’s eyes. The ember of resentment toward my wife flared up in my chest again, but I forced it back down. This wasn’t the time or the place to be thinking about her. “I hope your family remains out of danger. The tsar is doing everything he can to end this war soon, so you can return to them.” I patted the big man on the shoulder. “Enjoy your breakfast, Kostya.”
We walked on through the camp, stopping every so often to talk. The men were courteous, but I could tell they were worried. They executions weighed heavily on us, as did Miroslav’s order. After our fifth stop, I turned to Yakov.
“I’m concerned about how restless they’re becoming.”
He stopped, leaning against a tent pole. “They’re worried about their families. Can you blame them?”
I shook my head. “I’d already been going out of my mind thinking about Mila. And now I’m thinking about your mama, too. But with the rash of desertions, and now all these executions… I’m afraid if we stay here too long, we’ll have more deserters. The tsar can’t execute everyone.”
