Blue called out a question in Athabascan.
The youth scrutinized her carefully.
“Blue?” he said in English.
“Lynx?”
A rhythmic pulse worked on Grisha’s mind, persistent and bothersome. He watched the interchange between Blue and the person, Lynx. The pulse grew louder.
“Helicopter!” someone shouted. “Get into the tree line.”
How did they know to send a helicopter?
“They radioed for help!” Grisha blurted.
Lynx glanced at him, then back to Blue.
“Usually the Cossacks fight it out. One of the soldiers must have done it when the attack started.”
“How far are we from Tetlin?” Grisha asked.
“Thirty kilometers at the most,” Lynx said, “Why?”
“That’s an incredibly fast response, unless this attack was anticipated.”
The solid beat of rotors announced the impending arrival of the aircraft. Blue slapped Grisha on the arm and ran for the tree line. Grisha hesitated only a moment before following her. Professor thundered along behind them. Lynx had disappeared.
They ran into the forest for about twenty meters and threw themselves into a clump of alders. Grisha squirmed around so he could see the open square framed by trees. The unwounded soldier waved upward frantically.
The bright red helicopter hesitated in the blue Alaskan sky. Sparks suddenly danced across the bulbous fuselage as a Kalashnikov rattled.
The helicopter veered sideways and roared out over the river. Grisha watched, entranced, as it slowly turned back toward the camp, dropped to treetop level and bored in at high speed. The soldier still waved, grinning and hopping up and down.
Seeing only threat, the pilot fired his skid-mounted machine guns. The bullets threw up two walls of flying dirt, rock, and debris that raced across the square from left to right. The exploding tracks ripped across both soldiers, throwing them backward like sacks of bloody rags.
The Kalashnikov hammered again and a stream of greasy smoke threaded from the helicopter. The thread thickened into a tatter that rapidly ribboned into a banner. The craft turned awkwardly and labored out over the river again.
One island presented a long sandy expanse bereft of trees. The helicopter settled to within meters of the sand before it exploded. The blazing hulk ripped into pieces, some splashing down a quarter of a kilometer away.
Grisha turned to Blue with a wide grin. Two men flanked her. Both wore green and black paint applied in random patterns from the tops of their faces down to the neck of their dark shirts. The smaller one held a rifle that casually pointed at Professor, who sat quietly on the ground.
Grisha’s heart lurched as ice filled his mind.
I am Slayer-of-Men,” the taller man said in English. “We are Dená. This is our land.”
Grisha nodded, desperately trying to remember the names of his Athabascan Troika Guard troopers.
“We need your help and then you’re free to go,” the second man said.
“Understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Claude,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Grisha.” He licked his lips. “Grigoriy Grigorievich. I am a Creole. My father was Russian and my mother Koloshf. Until recently I lived in Akku, on Akku Channel.”
His anxiety lifted. If they allowed him to keep talking, he would be all right. His determination to live swelled.
“Tell us later.” Claude looked down at Professor. “How are you called?” he asked in Russian.
“Nikolai Rezanov. Please call me Nik,” he said in perfect English.
Grisha raised a skeptical eyebrow; the man was named after the famous romantic Russian hero?
“Were any of those people your friend?” Slayer-of-Men asked.
“No. I expected something like this,” Nik said, showing no fear.
“Before leaving Tetlin Redoubt we were told to remain constantly on the alert. But the Cossacks told us to stay out of their way, that they would tell us when we were needed.”
“We kill Cossacks,” Claude said.
“Good.”
“Was he cruel in his duties?” Slayer-of-Men asked Blue.
“Not that I ever saw. If anything, he was lazy, his nose in a book or scratching on paper all the time.”
“He’s afraid of the Cossacks just like we were,” Grisha said.
The Russian soldier glanced at him. “He’s right. I am afraid of them. They’re soulless animals.”
Grisha glanced around. More painted Dená filtered through the trees, bringing the other convicts.
The one called Lynx jogged across the square and into the trees carrying a Kalashnikov. Blue stood and faced the youth.
“Are you Lynx Bostonman, son of Boston Jack and Bead Woman?”
Lynx dropped the heavy weapon and moved closer to her.
“Yes. And you’re Blue. I thought my sister was dead.”
They hugged. Grisha saw a tear run down Lynx’s cheek. The others shifted away from the two and found tasks to occupy their attention. Some of the convicts murmured to each other.
Grisha touched Claude’s arm.
“Are we… am I a prisoner?”
“He is,” he pointed to Nik, “for now, time will tell. Like I said, you’re free to do what you like. We’re going to leave soon. There’s another tank and more soldiers on the way here from Tetlin Redoubt. I’ll be surprised if more aircraft aren’t here within the hour.”
Slayer-of-Men clapped his hands together.
“Now you will help us. All bodies go into the river, as well as damaged weapons. Let’s get busy, we don’t have much time.”
All of the prisoners stripped the dead soldiers of their boots and field jackets; the long nights had been cold. Grisha found a pair of boots that fit and carefully wiped each clean of the pieces of flesh stuck to them. The previous owner had taken the brunt of an explosion in the upper body.
Once again Grisha found himself using weapons to weigh down Russian bodies for a watery grave. Both times involved saving his own life. He hoped this time the result would be very different.
Again Slayer-of-Men clapped his hands for attention.
“You people have to choose now. More Cossacks are coming. We’ll be gone long before they arrive. You can come with us or stay.”
“If we go with you,” Irena asked, “will we be slaves?”
“No. You can leave us at any time. But if you stay with us you’ll work for your keep, but you won’t be a slave.”
“What about the cannibals in the forest?” Basil asked.
The tall Dená smiled and one of his team chuckled.
A thin Indian as tall as Rezanov clapped Grisha on the shoulder with a friendly hand.
“Who would eat this sorry litter of muskrats?”
“Heron is right,” Slayer-of-Men said. “You wouldn’t be worth cleaning, let alone cooking. There are no cannibals. We started that rumor to keep the Cossacks and the army out of the bush in small numbers. If a lot of them come into the land, we know about it because of the racket they make.”
“Where will you take us?” Basil asked.
“All over. This is a big land. We have many villages,” Claude said.
“You might even get a chance to join the Dená Army.”
“But there are Russian Army posts in many of the villages,” Nik said.
“If we are seen things could get very bad.”
“That’s true,” Slayer-of-Men said. “We must go now. How many wish to join us?”
Even Nik raised his hand.
“Why did we dump the bodies in the river?” Grisha asked.
Heron said, “They’ll never be found. The Russians will think we ate them.”
A smile creased Grisha’s face.
“Everybody carry as many weapons as you can,” Slayer-of-Men ordered.
“Don’t overdo it, we have many miles to go.”