Citadels of Fire

by L.K. Hill

  Chapter 13

  Siberia, Spring 1548

  Jasper was jumpy. Taras patted the side of his horse’s neck. Two months before, it would have been understandable, but by now the horse should have been used to the raw solitude of the Russian countryside. Taras’s horse wasn't the only one, though. The horses belonging to his companions were also friskier than usual.

  It had been a year since Taras left England. Margaret passed away six months after she told him of her illness. Taras stayed in England to bury her, see to her financial affairs, and fulfill her dying wish: that the servants find secure places of work. Most had found new placements by the time of her death. Only Taras and a small coterie waited on her in her last days. When she passed, Taras made sure they were each safe and well cared for.

  He had some money saved from his military career, which he used to buy supplies and his place on a ship crossing the Channel into Europe. From there, he rode on horseback over the open countryside. More than once, he stopped and worked for a few weeks to earn money for supplies before he could move on. As he passed through central Europe and the Middle East, he saw things he vaguely remembered from traveling with his parents as a boy. It amazed him to realize how sheltered he'd then—how much he had not understood as a young man.

  As he neared Russia, he went north, entering through Siberia. After his mother died, Taras’s father took him to a secluded valley in the heart of the Siberian wilderness. Their Russian family had owned the land for generations. He said it belonged to Taras now, and if he ever needed a place to go, this was it. Nicholas called the valley Anechka, which meant Grace of God.

  Taras was not reduced to farming--not yet--but he wanted to see the place again before heading into Moscow; to know he had a safety net if life in Muscovy turned out to be less than desirable. He doubted he would need it, but the valley represented the last memory he had of his father in Russia.

  Siberia was a vast place. The northernmost parts were nothing but frozen tundra. Almost nothing could survive out there. South of the permafrost the taiga, a huge forest that went on for hundreds of miles, grew. No one had ever charted it. The Siberian tiger inhabited these regions. It was an exotic place, or so Taras heard. There were stories of vast gold reserves, if one knew where to look.

  South of the taiga lay the mixed forest, containing both pine and leafy trees. The soil was not agriculturally sound, though. Taras knew it to be ashy and incapable of producing a decent crop. South of the mixed forest, the land of Siberia became livable. The steppe, often called the breadbasket of Russia, held some of the darkest soil in the world. Its fertility made it the agricultural center of the country.

  Anechka straddled on the border between the steppe and the mixed forest. The valley, shaped like a bowl, had the black soil of the steppe, and a large stream running through it. If one stood on the northern crest of the valley, all one could see for miles were trees. Far enough north to be dreadfully cold, and too far from civilization for anyone else to lay claim to it, it was solitude at its most complete.

  Taras reached the valley feeling empty. It made a man feel like the only person on earth. Taras spent several days there. At the end of his stay, he knew one thing for certain: if he ever went to live there, it would not be alone. He would bring someone with him—a wife, a family, someone—otherwise the solitude would drive him mad.

  Two days out of the valley, he came across a group of traveling men. Claiming to be descendants of the ancient Russian Cossacks, they traveled toward Moscow to trade their wares. They consisted of a variety of people, including Tatars, whose slanted eyes and small statures were strange to Taras. He’d heard about them while living in Russia, but had never met any. They were civil and curious when he told them he'd come from England and crossed the world on horseback. He caught several of them throwing him suspicious looks when they thought he wasn’t looking. They did not seem to mean him any harm, so he ignored them, choosing to be grateful for the company.

  He'd traveled with them for a fortnight.

  Today, clouds blocked the sun. Taras found it strange for the sun to set without having shown its face all day. Technically spring had arrived, which was why the caravans headed for Moscow. This far north, however, snow still covered the ground as far as the eye could see.

  “The horses will not calm,” one of his companions observed.

  The man who spoke called himself Almas. Almas had been friendly to Taras, or at least he’d spoken to Taras more than the others.

  “Any idea why?” Taras asked, grateful for the conversation.

  “No. Animals have keener senses than men. What they sense, we may soon experience.”

  Almas’ Russian was broken, and Taras had to concentrate to understand him. They traveled on through the snow, under the rapidly darkening sky.

  Soon they would stop and make camp. Large fires kept them warm at night and kept the wild animals away. Even so, every morning, outside the ring of light cast by the flames, animal tracks circled around their camp. It gave Taras the chills. The others said the animals were demons, trying to get at the men’s souls. One man always sat up at night, keeping watch.

  Taras did not believe such things, but deep in the night, when he wakened to the sound of feet crunching snow in the darkness, his disbelief in their superstitions did nothing to calm him.

  Furthermore, they were tracks he couldn’t identify. The land this far south didn’t seem right for tigers, but the paw prints were massive—almost the size of a man’s head.

  When Taras first joined the caravan, the men had been amazed at his courage to travel alone. Taras did not understand. Siberia did not seem frightening to him, no more than any other part of the world. Now, after traveling through the frozen wilderness for weeks, he could understand their awe. He'd probably been in grave danger the entire time and not realized it.

  “Why haven’t we stopped for the night yet?” Taras asked. “Even the twilight is fading.”

  Almas glanced at him before answering. “The horses’ unease is a bad omen. The men want to leave this valley before we stop. They say it is full of evil spirits.”

  “It’s too dark to see. The horses could break a leg.”

  “Not much farther. Over that ridge we’ll make camp.”

  There were thirty men in the caravan. As each had a horse and sleigh of goods and possessions, they were spread out over a quarter mile as they marched. Taras squinted in the twilight. The ridge looked a good way off—twenty- or thirty-minute ride at least—but unless he wanted to camp alone, he had no choice except to stay with the group. He dismounted and took Jasper’s bridle, leading him through the unnatural quiet.

  Screams shattered the stillness from somewhere behind Taras. He started and lost his footing, falling onto his hands and knees in the snow.

  The noise also startled Jasper. The stallion reared up on his hind legs and Taras barely made it out from under the stomping hooves as they came down. Stumbling to his feet, he grabbed Jasper’s bridle, trying to calm him. It was no use. The screams from the darkness continued, getting worse, even. It sounded like a man being tortured.

  “Almas, what’s going on?”

  Almas didn’t answer. He was getting his own horse under control. When he managed it, Taras thrust Jasper’s reigns into Almas’s hands.

  “Hold him for me.” Without waiting for a reply, he plunged back toward the screams, drawing his sword. The man still screamed. Whatever was happening, it must be terrible.

  As he waded through knee-deep snow, the screams receded. They weren’t lessening, only moving away from him. They faded, then stopped altogether. Taras reached a circle of five panting men. One of them held a horse with a black substance strewn across the saddle. The same substance colored the snow. Blood, Taras realized.

  “What happened?”

  The men exchanged glances. Taras turned to the man holding the horse.

  “Are you all right? Why is there blood on your horse?”

  The man shook hi
s head. “Not my horse. Ilgiz’s.”

  The man holding the horse had the reigns of a second horse in his other hand as well. The horse with the bloody saddle did not belong to him.

  “Where’s Ilgiz?”

  All five men pointed ominously in the same direction. Taras followed it. The caravan traveled in an open stretch of the valley to avoid trees, smaller shrubs, and roots that could trip up the horses or catch the rails of the sleighs. Not ten feet from them, a dense stand of trees stretched back, becoming miles of forest.

  Now that he looked, Taras could see deep grooves in the snow leading from Ilgiz’s horse into the trees. It still didn’t explain what happened. Taras did not believe a monster had come out of the forest and dragged a man, screaming, from his horse.

  Taras stalked toward the man holding Ilgiz’s horse and grabbed him by the throat. “Tell me straight: where is Ilgiz? What’s happening?”

  Mosts of these men, who claimed descent from the short-statured Mongols, only came up to reached Taras's chest. He was a giant to them, but the man holding the horse showed no fear when Taras grabbed him. He leaned forward to give his answer. His nose almost touched Taras’s. He whispered one word.

  “Wolves.”

  Taras released the man with a slight shove. He examined the scene again—blood in the snow, on the saddle, the drag marks. Was it possible? Taras had never seen wolves act like that before.

  “Are you telling me a wolf came out of the forest, wrestled a man from his saddle, and dragged him off?”

  “You obviously know little of Siberian wolves.” This voice came from behind him. Taras turned to see Almas approaching, leading his horse in one hand and Jasper in the other. “There is nothing to eat in the dead of winter. Even wolves can find no food. They are desperate and will attack anything. This is why the horses are nervous: they can sense the wolves prowling nearby. We must leave this valley. They will attack again.”

  Taras remembered hearing stories of Siberian wolves as a boy. Supposedly as large as horses, they were known to drag whole groups of people away if they were hungry enough.

  As though Almas’s words were a call to arms, the men in the circle remounted their horses to set out again. The moon came out from behind frozen clouds, as though to lead them, and cast a ghostly light over the valley.

  Their little gathering was alone; the rest of the caravan had not bothered to stop. They’d continued over the ridge in the distance and were probably making camp already.

  “Wait,” Taras sputtered, trying to countenance what had happened not twenty feet from him. “We must . . . help him.”

  “Who?”

  “Ilgiz.”

  The dark hid their faces, but Taras could feel their surprise.

  “Help him?” The unseen man sounded shocked.

  “There is nothing we can do for him now,” Almas said. “He is dead.”

  “We cannot leave a man to the wolves.” It sounded like such an odd thing to say when it wasn’t meant metaphorically.

  “We can do nothing for him,” Almas repeated. “If you try to follow, the rest of the pack will be waiting, and then you will be part of their meal as well.”

  “We’re talking about a man’s life—“

  Somewhere far off, a series of snarls were followed by renewed screams. They only lasted a moment. Then there was silence. Even the night creatures made no sound.

  A chill ran down Taras’s spine. He didn't think he’d never be warm again.

  “There, you see,” Almas’s voice was quiet. “It is over. We must go.”

  All the men mounted, taking advantage of the moon’s light, and spurred their horses toward the ridge. Almas offered Jasper’s reigns to Taras. When he didn’t take them, Almas let them drop to the ground. He mounted his horse and left Taras standing in the blood-stained snow.

  Taras ought to follow. Staying by himself wasn't smart, but he felt rooted to the place. He imagined a man—whom he’d never set eyes on—being picked clean by wild animals.

  Taras picked up Jasper’s reigns. The horse seemed calmer than before. Perhaps now that the pack had gotten their meal, they’d moved farther away. Taras put his hands on either side of the horse’s head and rested his forehead against Jasper’s. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm the sickness in his belly.

  Russia was turning out to be a more barbaric place than he remembered.