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Taras peeked around a corner at the two guards. One sat at a wooden table with cards spread out in front of him. The other slept.
Taras doubted the tsar allowed his guards to sleep while on duty. They'd probably struck a bargain to take turns. So much the better: it made Taras’s task easier.
Moving on silent toes, he crept up behind the wakeful guard, whose head swiveled in every direction, eyes scanning every crevice and shadow of the room. Taras wondered if the man heard him approaching, and now scanned for intruders.
As Taras came up behind him, his head began to turn. Taras clubbed him in the neck with the butt of his hunting knife. The dull thud of wood clunking bone followed, and a wheeze of air from the guard. Taras caught him before his head hit the table, which would have been much louder. He stole a glance at the guard’s sleeping partner. The other man snorted and turned over, but did not waken.
Taras swiftly tied the first guard’s wrists and ankles to his chair and gagged him. That done, he clunked the sleeping man over the head, assuring he wouldn’t wake any time soon. Minutes later, the second man tied beside his comrade, Taras turned both their chairs away from the dungeon's door. If they woke before he returned, they wouldn’t see him pass by.
Then, Taras descended the ladder. He walked the familiar, winding path toward Almas’s cell, knowing this time would be the last.
In the days since the Tsar’s announcement, rumors sprang up of the Oprichniki being gathered and trained. All whispers reported their savage brutality, but no one claimed to have actually seen them. No one knew firsthand what their training or methods consisted of. It would only be a matter of time before everyone found out, he was sure. The thought made Taras's hands grow cold. One positive aspect of Ivan's Oprichniki was that they trained in secret, away from the palace. Sergei trained with them, which meant no one saw much of him. Since the night he’d chased Inga to Taras’s room, he hadn’t showed a renewed interest in her.
Darkness gathered around the Kremlin, so palpable Taras almost saw it sometimes. He needed to find answers to his mother’s death. He needed them so he could get Inga out of the Kremlin before things got any worse. His days were packed with military assignments, council meetings, and following Inga around out of worry about Sergei. He might not currently be in the palace, but he'd make an appearance eventually, and where Inga least expected him to be.
Following the winding passage as it plunged deeper into the darkness, the air became thicker and harder to breathe. Finally, he stood before the cell he needed. Plunging his torch into the soft dirt of the ground, he wiggled it back and forth until it stayed upright.
“Hello, my friend,” a familiar voice said from the darkness. Pallid fingers wound around the bars a moment later. The thick, murky shadows obscured the face above them.
“Almas, I must speak with you.”
“Tell me, what time of day is it?”
“Just after noon.”
“And is the sun out today?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. And yet you are troubled. What news do you bring?”
Taras swallowed. “You and your countrymen are to be executed a few days hence.”
Soft, fearful cries came from the darkness behind Almas, where Taras knew shackles held more Tatar prisoners.
“I see,” Almas said. “So you’ve come to say goodbye. I want to thank you, Taras, for the hospitality you’ve shown us this past year. You have made our stay much more bearable.”
Taras scoffed. “Please don’t thank me, Almas. I’ve done nothing worthy of thanks. Until now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I intend to free you.”
Almas stayed silent for a time. “Why do you do this, Taras?”
Taras sighed, not sure how to answer. He could hardly explain it to himself. “I don’t know. I suppose because my conscience demands it.”
“I am unsurprised. Living here, your conscience must eventually demand something.”
Anger surged in Taras's belly. “That’s none of your concern. I’m here to free you. Consider it a gift.”
Almas’s hand shot out from between the bars, grabbing Taras’s arm. “I do. Please, Taras, forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
The anger melted into guilt. What did he have to be angry about when Almas had lived in these conditions for months?
“What will happen now?” Almas’s voice sounded anxious.
“I'll break the lock and let you go. The guards above the door are unconscious and tied up. I’ll let you out, but I need a few minutes to get out, myself. I don’t want to see where you go. It’s better that way. I cannot control what happens afterward. If you’re recaptured, I won't be able to help again. Go, Almas. Get as far away from the Kremlin as possible.”
He hefted the leather scrip on his shoulder. “There are some supplies in here. I couldn’t manage much. Hopefully it will see you a few days from Moscow before you have to hunt.”
Anxious voices whispered urgently from the darkness. It sounded like arguing.
“What are they saying?” Taras didn’t understand the language.
“They think perhaps we are meant to die for our religion. That Allah wills it.”
“If Allah wants you dead, you will die. So far, you've survived. Perhaps I am here because it is God’s will that you live. I vowed a year ago to get you back to your family. I know this action is long overdue. If you stay, you will surely die, and it will be a horrible death. Please, go now. Go back to your wife and child.”
Almas conveyed what Taras said to the others, who became silent.
Taras took a short-handled ax from his belt. One solid clang rang through the cavern and the padlock dropped to the dirt with a thud. Taras opened the door and found himself facing Almas.
“Will you go?”
Almas nodded. “I believe I will. Our defeat has shamed us, but you’ve given us the chance to stand tall again one day. We must all stand for something, Taras. Otherwise, what purpose is there in our lives?”
Taras gazed at Almas for a time, wondering if the other man was trying to tell him something, or simply mused aloud. Taras hardly knew what he stood for anymore. He clasped Almas’s hand. “It has been an honor to know you, Almas.”
“Goodbye, my friend. The honor has been mine.”
