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[...] and as the last pieces of bread and water left in the stock were divided between the men, we, the last of the Russians, continued pushing forward across these deserts of snow and frost. Any roads or paths that once trailed across here were covered and invisible. But even if we could see the mightiest passage in front of us that miraculously led to Tver, how much use would it be when we can't see past our shoulders.

It's as if God himself is punishing us. Showering us with storms, blizzards and eternal cold. But no matter what, the remnants of the Army - about five thousand starving men, each one with a crushed spirit and a former life they had, never to return to - pushed on.

Slowly, slowly... The soldiers around me could barely register as human beings at all. All of them more resembled a bunch of broken carcasses, covered in furs and flesh, holding one hand in front of their "face" to protect it from the whetting hail. I still held onto my spear as a some sort of walking stick. It's not like I'll ever get to use it again. What's the chance that we'll be able to defeat the Litvins next time? Radziwill's grunts are probably trailing after us as I speak.

As I slowly marched forward, I slowly walked over the corpses littered around our trail. They couldn't take it. Many of us are wounded, bleeding, and we haven't brought a single doctor with us... The rest march with gurgling stomachs, freezing bodies and broken hearts. Throughout the last three days, I've already witnessed men going insane from lack of food and attacking their comrades, they had to be put down, others trying to eat dead grass, wood, snow, soil and horse manure or even each other. We almost never stop to sleep, to rest or to eat. Not that we have the time, or the food, to do any of that. All villages in sight were looted and abandoned, there was zero grain or meat left there in this dark winter.

Our last hope is returning to Tver. Wherever it may be. Are we even going to the right direction? How many days, or, more accurately, how many dead bodies will it take before we get there?

Throughout this long march, Kratkov was running around the entire army, desperately trying to keep hopes up. "There is still a chance we can pull back," he says. "Perhaps Sweden will change their mind," he continues. "Perhaps the Westerners will attack Lithuania again," he repeats. His lackey Boris was much less energetic. Walking at the side of the army with a few followers, the noble from Vyazma simply watched as his leader tried to beat the war drum again.

None of us wanted to fight anymore. We had families that we had to save from a Litvin onslaught.

One of the soldiers walking next to me suddenly fell on his knees, coughing heavily. His clothes were punctured and soaked with water and blood - how could he walk for three whole days with them? Kratkov quickly hurried to the weakened, coughing man, and immediately took off his fur coat and gave it to the soldier.

Our leader said that he had to kill bear with his own hands for that fur, and yet he gave it away immediately to someone in need. Of course, risking his own life in this freezing weather. The march continued.

Hours passed, one after another, and as the sun got closer to the horizon, the blizzard began to calm down. Perhaps God still has hope for us after all. For the first time in this march, we agreed to stop and set up camp, near a frozen riverside, not far away from an another abandoned village. There was no point in trying to settle there - there's probably nothing left after Litvin looting, anyway. No food, no people. A few warriors who were still able to stand were sent as scouts to find a road to Tver, a few others walked to a nearby forest to hunt for meat, while others rested in the camp. Among our ranks, we found a man who used to work as an assistant of a doctor before being drafted into the Yaroslavl Opolcheniya. Lines to his services immediately began to form, but the poor student soon realized that he knew much less than what he thought...

I was one of the few people who wasn't on the verge of death or bleeding out, and was thus sent to the nearby forest with a few other soldiers. Two, to be more exact. One of them was Yuri, from Novgorod. He was one of the many locals who cheered for the arriving Russian Army, he even said he helped to break down and destroy the veche bell. According to him, he wanted to feel the thrill of combat and fighting for his people, and thus immediately signed up for the Opolcheniya. And now, he's a broken shell of a man like all of us, with a bullet wound in his left arm that forever immobilized it.

The other was Boris - he was a peasant from the region around Vladimir, just like me. He rose up in the first days of the Rebellion, and along with six of his friends, he rallied his village to burn the local estate and join the Opolcheniya. Boris kept reminding me that the last of those "friends" died a few hours ago - he caught pneumonia, there was no way of helping him, especially not in this type of weather, so he had to be left behind. Even when I'd ask him to shut up, he still continued. Unlike Yuri, he wasn't injured, even though he was one of the men who charged right into Lithuanian musketeers in Sychyovka, such a flash of luck that even the peasant himself was surprised how he's still alive.

The three of us slowly pushed across the dead, leafless forest, periodically stabbing the ground, hoping to hit any sort of animal. No, nothing to be found for miles. The forest is sleeping. The animals are sleeping. Only we, men, are stupid enough to wander around in winter. So we turned around, marching back towards the camp.

On the way, we met an another group of hunters. They didn't have anything either, and they apparently actually lost one of their ranks - apparently, one of their men was only acting to be healthy, and as soon as the camp was no longer visible, he ran screaming to the forest, never to return. He didn't want to die among his peers and sadden them even more.

A few minutes later, we finally reached the frozen river. Some of the ice was already broken, and only a few floating strains of cloth gave us a hunt of what happened there. Trying to avoid the same fate, we moved across slowly, one by one.

God must have favored us, because we didn't lose anyone there. There, the camp is already in sight!.. But where is everyone? The field around the scattered tents were almost empty of people, even though they were crowded when we left... The answer was placed before us soon enough, as a man soon rushed towards us from one of the tents, exclaiming:

"Brothers! Brothers! Kratkov is dying!"

Wait... WHAT? Dropping our weapons and cargo, we immediately rushed to the largest tent in the center, where a few dozen people had already gathered around. Don't tell me that it's true... It can't be!

But, alas, when we reached the building and stormed to the inside, we witnessed our leader, our Vozhd in these long years of war in his deathbed. He could barely even speak, his eyes were squinting, and he generally looked tired and weak. Perhaps giving his clothes to others wasn't the best decision... Kratkov coughed heavily, trying to clear his throat, but it didn't help.

And we had no medicine. We had nobody in this army who knew how to treat our leader. And he knew that. All of us knew that.

Boris of Vyazma was kneeling next to him, holding his hand. Many of his other followers - Mikhail Romanov, his former enemy, and Viktor Ulyanovich - were standing by the side. One of the soldiers brought a priest, one of the many recruited, but one of the few who survived, and the holy man began preparations for the Mystery sacrament. Of course, we didn't have any oil, nor wheat or candles, only water...

But despite all efforts, Ivan knew that this is the end.

"Boris," he said, speaking to his loyal follower. The noble from Vyazma raised his head. "It is your mission to lead the Russian people now. At this time, they need your guidance more than ever. Lead them to victory or to virgin lands, I'm sure you will pick the right choice..."

Boris of Vyazma merely nodded in response. Mikhail Romanov already took off his hat... But the Vozhd still had some things to say.

"Brothers and sisters..." he said, speaking to everyone else in the room. "I will no longer be able to help Mother Russia in her eternal struggle. But no matter how many centuries we will have to endure... someday God will bring mercy to our people, I'm sure."

No...

No...

Look at his eyes, the closing eyes... And the limp body...

He is dead! Ivan Kratkov is dead! Russia is dead!