The End Is Now

“Do it!” shouts the Tsar.

My vision is blurring. The saber point wavers. I am compelled to obey and to disobey at the same time. The dissonance is roaring in my ears. I cannot say no and I cannot strike. I am drowning, my mind swallowing itself.

But there is a solution.

I lift the saber higher, the tip stretching toward the Tsar. Then, I rotate the flashing blade in my hands, all the way around until the point dimples the fabric of my kaftan. With both hands I tense my shoulders and I pull—

“Stop!” says the Tsar, placing a hand on my arm.

I silently return the sword to its first position.

“Welcome to Moscow . . . Peter,” the Tsar says, clapping an arm around my shoulders. “A pity you can’t have a drink to celebrate.”

“But, my Tsar, you choose to call it Peter?” asks Favo, quietly.

“I call it by its name: Peter Alexeyevich,” he says.

“I do not understand,” says Favo. “Why . . . ”

“Peter is my name while I am on this Earth. But with reason and patience, you have built a ruler who can someday take my place and rule the Russian Empire forever. Peter will carry my name like a banner through the ages, immune to the physical ruin of time and always faithful to pravda. An eternal Tsar.”

GREAT EUROPEAN PLAIN, 1725

As blades whistle by overhead, I roll over a dying horse and fall to the wet plain. I scramble onto my hands and knees, sharp hooves flashing over me. Before I can stand, a hoof stamps my sword hand into the dirt.

Two of my fingers are left behind, severed and shining in the muddy crater.

Pulling my shattered fist tight to my chest, I stagger to my feet and raise the shashka with my other hand. The nearest dragoon makes a prancing turn and rounds on me. His thighs clenching, the rider leans in his saddle—his red belt sash snapping in the wind as he gains speed.

Silver eclipses the clouds as his saber leaves its scabbard.

I am still as the quake of hooves envelops me. The dark bulk of the warhorse grows into a blur, its breath snorting from flared nostrils as it strains to carry the armored rider to intercept me.

I turn, dropping to avoid the rider’s flashing weapon.

Too late. I feel a tug between my shoulder blades. The rider’s blade connects, parts my kaftan and splits the armor beneath. Broken metal ringlets scatter past my face like a shower of coins.

But my sword remains up and steady. Its single honed edge slides along the rider’s unarmored thigh. As he gallops away, the leg bounces curiously and I see that it is dangling from tendons. The rider reaches for the wound, grunting at the sight of the injury. As his horse turns in place, craning to look back, the rider rolls out of the saddle. He hits the ground and now the leg does come off, coating the electric green grass with arterial blood.

The horse backs away, confused.

There is no pain in me. Only awareness. Three more riders are on the attack. My left arm is hanging uselessly now, damaged by the wide gash that has slit my back. I stumble and try to catch myself but my arms are not working correctly. I fall onto my stomach, face first into the muddy plain. Stalks of grass tickle the rough leather of my cheek. This close, I can see that the blades of grass are dancing with the vibration of hooves pounding dirt.

Arching my body, I lift up and roll onto my back.

A lance crunches into my chest, bending the metal of my frame into a deformed valley. I feel the pressure and shock of it, the tremor of the dragoon’s hand on the wooden shaft. I hear my innards tearing as the horse gallops by overhead. The lance is wrenched from my chest, yanking me off the ground before dropping me sprawling onto my side.

Somewhere nearby, Elena makes a small hurt sound. She is finished shouting for mercy. There is clearly none to be had.

Though I was never born of a woman, I am in fetal position now. Wounded and cowering in the way of a mortal man. I catch sight of Elena, cringing twenty yards away, small and shapeless under her cloak.

Blood-stained hooves trample the mud all around me. The stabbing weight of a hoof snaps a strut inside my right thigh. My leg nearly comes loose from my hip socket, and I am tossed again. I land on my stomach, one brass cheekbone pushing through my leather skin and into damp earth.

Again, I am still.

A gentle rain is drumming the empty waste of the steppe. There is no more thunder. Gathered in a circle, the surviving guardsmen are speaking to each other in confused tones that sound distant and hollow.

Blood, they are saying. Blood.

They marvel that no blood is leaking from me. They are examining the blunted lance tip, noting how clean it is. What is this man made of, they wonder? What hidden armor does he wear? He is mortally wounded, yet he doesn’t cry out.