Cold, damp evening mist drifted through the woods, and Irina hugged the feverish child tighter to her chest.
The village ruins that had still been billowing black smoke five days ago were far behind her, yet the choking smell of burning lingered in her nostrils. Thorns had torn her ragged skirt into strips, and dark red scabs crusted her exposed ankles.
At the head of the procession walked a standard-bearer holding the Restoration Army's torch-and-sickle flag high. He guided the refugees onward, shouting as he went.
"Just hold on a little longer. There's food up ahead..."
Irina did not believe him, but she had no idea what else to do except follow numbly along with the others.
If she kept walking, she might starve to death. But if she left the main group of refugees and ventured into the woods on either side of the road, she would certainly die one way or another, devoured by the equally ravenous beasts in human form lurking deep among the trees.
"Mommy, cold."
Three-year-old Misha shivered beneath his shabby, thin cloak, his little face flushed an unnatural red. The spring night wind was still bitterly cold.
Irina touched his burning forehead, her throat tightening. She wanted to cry, but she lacked the strength even to sob.
The last half of the flatbread handed out by the supposed grain convoy leader had been eaten the night before. Now only a rusty dagger remained on the hemp rope around her waist... her husband had pressed it into her hand before collapsing on the road.
Suddenly, hoofbeats sounded farther up the mountain road.
The twenty-odd grimy refugees at the front of the procession froze. At a time like this, anyone who still had a horse was either a bandit or a soldier in a cavalry unit.