The sun had just passed its zenith, but the cold showed no sign of easing.
Norjin advanced toward Vladimir’s sealed main gate under a white flag.
At his side walked Vladimir, Prince of Moscow, his hands bound with leather thongs, and Stephan, wearing a black cassock, serving as interpreter.
Norjin stopped at the very edge of bow range.
Behind them, Mongol soldiers stood in ranks, catapults positioned at their center.
A figure appeared briefly on the watchtower above the wooden palisade of Vladimir—then vanished.
Norjin dismounted and spoke to the Prince of Moscow at his side.
“You are about to be asked, before the gates of Vladimir, whether you will accept the terms and submit to Mongol rule—or refuse them.”
Stephan murmured the translation.
“Ныне, у врат града Владимира, вас вопросят: примете ли вы условия сии и покоритесь ли власти монгольской, или отвергнете их.”
“If your answer is yes, you will be returned to your family in Vladimir and a treaty will be concluded. The city will be spared.
If your answer is no—”
Norjin paused.
“Vladimir will be erased without a trace. Its people will be killed along with your family. You as well.”
Stephan’s voice wavered as he translated.
“Аще изречёте ‘да’, возвратим вас к дому вашему во Владимир и утвердим договор.
Град Владимир пребудет невредим.
Аще же изречёте ‘нет’, град Владимир будет стёрт с лица земли, и все люди его погибнут с домом вашим вместе. И вам самим не будет пощады.”
The Prince of Moscow opened his mouth as if gasping for air.
“There are many ways the Mongols execute criminals,” Norjin continued evenly.
“For nobles, there are methods befitting their station. Being trampled by horses until every bone is shattered, for instance.”
The prince’s face drained of color.
“But I am not Mongol. Nor are you. There is no need to follow their customs.
If you wish, I can arrange a Mongol-style execution as well.”
“…Wish…” the prince whispered.
“If you wish, I can take your head in a single stroke. No pain. Instant.”
Tears began to stream from the prince’s eyes.
“I… I wish for that.”
“Understood,” Norjin replied shortly.
Stephan stared at Norjin’s perfectly composed, mask-like face, then crossed himself.
They did not have to wait long.
A voice called out from the watchtower.
“Volodya!”
The Prince of Moscow looked up.
“Help me! Slava! Brother! Tell them you accept the Tatar terms!”
“Wait!”
Mstislav shouted, then disappeared from view.
The moment stretched, feeling like centuries.
“Forgive me! Forgive me, Volodya!”
Mstislav reappeared, shouting.
Norjin drew his saber.
There was a commotion on the watchtower.
Breaking through restraint, a woman leaned out.
“Mama!” the Prince of Moscow cried.
“Volodya! Vovochka!”
The Grand Princess leaned so far it seemed she might fall, stretching both arms toward him.
“Мать.”
“Молиться,” Stephan murmured.
Norjin seized the prince by the belt, forced him to his knees, and brought the saber down in a single motion.
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A scream tore through the air.
At the same instant, the catapults began to fire, and flaming arrows rained down upon the city of Vladimir.
The buildings inside the walls shuddered violently.
The deep boom of stones striking the palisade shook the structures, and each tremor drew screams from the people gathered in the monastery lodgings where Zaya stood.
“It’s begun.”
Zaya rose quietly and turned to Ahmad.
“You can come if you want. Or stay.”
Ahmad said nothing. He pulled his leather pouch close and slipped out of the lodging behind her.
The monastery courtyard was packed with people. The gates could not be closed—there were too many, pressing forward in long lines.
Forcing their way through the crowd, Zaya and Ahmad exited the monastery and moved toward the city, against the flow of people.
Steam still rose from the banya at the edge of the district, though it appeared abandoned.
They went around to the back and entered the wood shed.
Zaya pushed Ahmad deep inside, then searched for something that could serve as a weapon.
She found a suitable axe—short-handled, heavy-bladed. It would do.
She broke through the shed wall to make a rear exit, piled firewood to conceal it, and hid inside herself.
Flaming arrows fell without pause. Soldiers rushed about trying to extinguish fires.
The reinforced palisades and gates slowed the destruction, but only barely.
At last, the gates gave way.
Mongol soldiers poured into the city, roaring.
Inside the shed, Zaya listened to the thunder of boots pounding the ground like torrential rain, and tightened her grip on the axe.
She was calm.
Since parting from Norjin, she had not once prayed for him to come save her.
She had not wondered what he would do.
She was herself.
She had not grown weak.
She had no intention of relying on anyone.
Someone entered the shed.
Ahmad curled up on the ground, whispering prayers.
Another figure entered. Voices spoke.
Then came the sound of fire being set.
Ahmad tried to flee through the rear exit, but Zaya grabbed him by the collar of his kaftan and forced him down.
When the enemy left and the smoke became unbearable, Zaya kicked away the stacked firewood and emerged.
Outside the banya stood several Kipchak soldiers.
They turned at the sound.
Before them stood a young man with a black cloth wrapped around his head, a burning log in one hand, and an axe in the other.
The familiar thrill before battle surged through Zaya’s body.
She licked her lips.
One step forward—and there was no stopping.
She rushed the Kipchak soldiers, pressing the burning log into one man’s face and hacking down another’s hand with the axe.
The burned man screamed, clutching his face and collapsing.
The other shrieked, holding his arm.
Two.
Hearing the cries, more Kipchak soldiers gathered.
Good.
Come.
Before they could even raise their weapons, Zaya plunged into them, swinging the burning log and bringing the axe down mercilessly on a soldier who recoiled. Blood sprayed, spattering her body.
More.
Come closer.
This was no longer an ambush. The enemy drew their swords.
A soldier twice her width charged her.
When the log was knocked from her hand, Zaya slid her grip down the axe handle, crouched low, and buried the blade into his ankle.
The soldier roared like a beast and fell.
Zaya avoided the collapsing body, slid her grip again, seized the end of the handle, and swung the axe in a wide arc.
Centrifugal force amplified the blow.
The axe bit into another soldier’s shoulder and stuck fast.
She kicked him away.
As she turned, a blade cut across her chest.
The black cloth slipped from her head, revealing her face and thick braided hair.
Her slashed deel sagged, exposing her right shoulder.
“A woman!”
The Kipchak soldiers shouted in unison.
Zaya grabbed her deel and covered her chest, stepping back to steady her breathing.
The soldiers moved differently now, attacking all at once.
Perfect.
I could almost—
She tightened her grip and drove the axe into the neck of the soldier before her.
In that instant, her back was cut. The thick undergarment spared her flesh.
She spun and swung horizontally, but the enemy slipped back, avoiding the blade.
She didn’t need to kill them all. Injuring them was enough to break their will.
She went low, aiming for legs.
She planted her foot on the fallen man and moved straight on to the next foe.
Then she heard it—familiar Mongolian, at last.
“What are you doing? Stop!”
A mounted soldier forced back those attacking her.
“I am Zaya!” she shouted.
“Princess of the Jochid Ulus!”
“Take me to Batu!”
