Fate & Fortune

by Michaels, Fern

  Mikhailo Kornilo was a small man by Cossack standards, but he was a fighter and had served his tribe well until the day a wild-eyed Tatar severed his leg at the knee with one flourish of his scimitar. Now he had grown stocky with food in his belly three times a day and vodka water at night. He shook his wooden peg leg and cursed all Tatars for what happened. His normally ruddy face was crimson with the expletives he spat out. His straggly gray-and-white beard was sparse as his hands now pulled and tugged at it in anger. His brown eyes traveled around the village and came to rest on the sleeping Katerina. He was her godfather. He remembered how he had dangled her on his knee when she was a baby. Too ugly to take a wife, he had devoted himself to Katlof and his family, and they, in turn, regarded him as one of their own. He gladly would have given his life for any of them, but now it was too late.

  One day soon the elder Katmon would die. Already he was preparing for an elaborate funeral. Soon the old man would join Katlof and the other dead Cossacks, leaving only Katerina, Stepan, himself, and the other old people. His eyes lighted for a moment when he remembered that Whitefire was safe in the Carpathian Mountains. If one had to be thankful for small favors, this was the one to be thankful for. Katerina knew the secret. Katerina would rebuild, and he and Stepan would help her. It never entered his mind that the mares were gone, that without Wildflower, the stallion, Whitefire, was just another stallion. He tugged at the straggly beard as he limped back to the sleeping girl.

  Three days later Katerina was on her feet, her eyes haunted, her mouth a grim, tight line. “What are we to do, Mikhailo? It will take us ten years to get any breeding stock. Twenty before we have a herd. I’ve been thinking while I lay here.”

  “You plan to go to your mother’s people, is that what you’re going to tell me? I see it in your eyes. You intend to ask the Khan for help?”

  “There is no other way, Mikhailo. I must get the horses. How can I live with this?” she said, waving her arm around what had been Volin. “I have to try. If I fail, then that is something else, but first I must make the effort. I didn’t betray our people. You say you believe me. That’s all I need to know. Somehow you will make it sound right when you tell Grandfather what happened.”

  “And the Russian?” It was a question that, up until now, Katerina had refused to think about. Now she would have to bring the matter into the open and discuss it with Mikhailo.

  “I loved him. He loved me. Nothing you or anyone else says will ever convince me differently. I don’t know what happened. I was told that Father sent two of the men after Yuri to slice out his tongue and cut off his hands so he couldn’t divulge the secret. Father would never let him go back to Moscow thinking I gave him the secret. He’s dead, Mikhailo. And my father killed him just as surely as if he wielded the weapon himself. I have to try to prove to myself that Yuri was not responsible for what happened. Every Cossack on the steppe will think me guilty, and this must not be allowed to happen. I don’t know who or why the raid happened, but I will find out!”

  “So you will journey to the Khanate of Sibir, and then what? You’re a woman, what can you do?”

  “As you know, the Khan is my mother’s brother. He’ll help me. Sit down, Mikhailo, for what I have to tell you will shock you off your feet.”

  The old man eyed her warily but sat down, his face full of dread.

  “We all know that the Mongols’ military strength has deteriorated to the point where they are no longer the fierce warriors they once were. I plan to ask the Khan for men from his prisons to take back with me to the House of the Kat. I will work with them through the winter months and make Cossacks out of them. In the spring we will ride out and seek that which belongs to me—the Cosar horses.”

  The old man shook his head. “Just like that, eh? The Khan will give you the prisoners, criminals of the worst sort, and you are going to train them to be fighting Cossacks! And then you will set out in search of your horses. You’re a woman. What makes you think you can do this, and what makes you think you can make the Khan help you? A Cossack is born, you can’t create a Cossack.”

  “Make no mistake, Mikhailo, as sure as the first wildflower blossoms on the frozen banks of the Dnieper River, a new breed of Cossacks will be born,” she said savagely.

  “I know in my bones the Khan won’t help you,” Mikhailo said.

  “He’ll help me,” Katerina said coldly. “And the reason I know I will succeed is because I am my father’s daughter. Yes, I’m a woman, but I’m also a Cossack. If it comes to money, I will give the Khan whatever he asks. I will do whatever he wants if he agrees to my plan.”

  “Criminals! The men are criminals! They’ll kill you!” the old man said fearfully.

  “Mikhailo, you don’t for one second believe that a man, a Mongol, could kill me, do you? Where is the Cossack courage you forced me to cut my teeth on? Have you no faith in my ability? Where else can I get the men? Men that will fight for me? Our village is wiped out; our men are gone. You and I are all that are left, save Grandfather and the elders in the mountains. If you have a better solution I would be happy to hear it.”

  “I have no thoughts, Katerina. But criminals? How many do you plan to bring back with you?”

  “As many as the Khan will give me.”

  “What if they kill you on the journey home?”

  “Mikhailo, they will be shackled together. If I am not worried, then you should not be. It is the only way. I’ll leave in the morning, and I’ll have to take your horse. When you next see me I shall have my new Cossacks with me. Be gentle with Grandfather when you tell him. Make him understand, please, Mikhailo.”

  “How can I make him understand when I don’t understand myself?” her godfather asked irritably. “Mongols are ugly sons of bitches.”

  “I hate to remind you, but Mongol blood runs in my veins. You know my mother was a Mongol. I never knew you thought I was ugly,” she teased lightly.

  “You are beautiful, but Mongols are ugly,” the old man said sourly. “Sneaky! Don’t turn your back on them or they stick a knife in you. Mark my words.”

  “Mikhailo, who is better, a Mongol or a Cossack?”

  “A Cossack—what sort of question is that?”

  “Then you have your answer. I want your promise that you will not worry about me.”

  “How long?” the old man asked curtly.

  “A week’s ride each way. Three days at the Mongol camp. I’ll be in the mountains before the snows come. My word, Mikhailo, as a Cossack. You’ll see me before the snows come. If I’m to get an early start, I must sleep now.” She kissed the leathery cheek and lay down. She was asleep immediately.

  The sun was coming up and the old man had not closed his eyes once. He watched the sleeping girl who was now a woman with fear in his eyes. She was right; she was her father’s daughter. If there was a way to bring the Mongols back to the mountains, she would do it. Never had he seen such a look in anyone’s eyes. Not even in Katlof’s eyes, and he was the most awesome, the most fearsome of all the Cossacks.

  From the time she was able to ride, Katerina had been trained with the others, purely out of indulgence by her famous father. It amused him to see her unseat one of the mighty Cossacks, and then he would sit and drink with her till the sun came up. He would praise her and tell her that she was as good a Cossack as any of his men. Proof of his sincerity was when he bestowed the gelding Bluefire on her when she reached sixteen.

  Before it had been for sport, but now it was a matter of survival—Katerina’s survival. She was so full of hate and vengeance she would do what she said, and she would win. He was sure of it. When she awoke he turned to her and said, “With your father’s death your birthright demands that I now address you as the Kat. You have now been given a grave responsibility, Katerina.”

  “I knew I was the Kat the moment I walked into the village and saw my father’s dead body. There is no need for you to remind me,” Katerina said sharply.

  Katerina eyed Mikhailo carefully as she s
wung herself onto the horse. “If I’m to ride all the way to the Khanate of Sibir, these clothes are best. They were all I could find among Stepan’s outgrown clothing. A bit small but I’ll manage,” she said, patting at the skintight trousers that covered her slim haunches. “I’ll need the boots for the Urals.” The old man eyed her attire solemnly and nodded his shaggy head. He drew in his breath as he watched a button pop on the tight-fitting shirt, exposing a creamy expanse of flesh. He was an old man, what right did he have to voice an opinion of her clothing; and besides, he thought sourly, she wouldn’t listen to anything he had to say. From this moment on she would listen to no one save herself. He shrugged his stocky shoulders as he watched her gather the reins in her strong, capable hands.

  With one deft movement she had the tawny hair in a twirl and bunched on top of her head. “A safe journey to you, Mikhailo, and remember to be gentle with Grandfather.” With a light wave of her hand she was off, the thick leather boots spurring the horse beneath her.

  Mikhailo watched horse and rider as they rode with the wind. “And a safe journey to you, Kat,” he muttered as he watched the young woman rein in the horse at the top of the rise. She looked back and then kicked the horse again. Would she return? Of course she would; she was her father’s daughter, wasn’t she? And when she did, she would have a Mongol army with her as she had promised. No, that wasn’t right—she would have men, hardened criminals, that would be trained to become an army. A chill washed over him as he pictured her return to the Carpathians with her band of criminals. What in the name of God would Katmon say when he was told? Be gentle with him, the Kat had said. “Ha!” Mikhailo snorted. How does one tell a sick, dying old man that his granddaughter would be arriving with the first snows with a band of Mongol criminals? How was he to tell him that his son was dead; all the Cossacks slaughtered because of . . . This was no time to think of what had happened or what might happen when he returned to the House of the Kat. For now, he had better get these limbs moving if he expected to make the next village by sunset.

  With a last look around the gutted village, Mikhailo squared his shoulders and started down the long, dusty road. By nightfall of the following day, he might be back in the mountains. That was all he would think about on his trek.

  Katerina rode the gelding as though she were in training. Her slim body was hunched over, her head almost touching the horse’s mane. There was no need to spur the russet horse, for he knew he was supposed to run at breakneck speed till the reins were tightened.

  When the sun was high, Katerina slowed the obedient animal and let him nibble at the sea of green grass and drink from a bubbling stream. Shielding her eyes from the strong sunlight, she refused to let her mind think of anything except the horse that was eating serenely beneath her. Her eyes raked the quietness around her as she turned, first in one direction and then in another. She had seen no sign of life since starting to keep close to the high growth, off the main roads. Again she let her eyes rake the quiet surroundings. The feeling of eyes boring into her was so strong that she pulled a knife from her belt and moved stealthily into a pile of brush and crouched down. The horse, finished with his munching, reared his head and pawed the ground. So he, too, knows something is wrong, the Kat thought. An animal? A snake perhaps? Two-legged or four-legged? she mused to herself. A slight rustle to her left and she swiveled, the knife grasped firmly in her hand. Crouching lower, she moved from the thicket to open ground and waited, her breath quickening as the gelding paced anxiously. The amber eyes glittered as she crept toward a dense thicket and lashed out with her booted foot, her knife raised high, ready for a deep plunge.

  The sight that met her eyes drove her backward, a look of horror on her face. She ran till she reached a tree, which she clasped with all her being to hold her upright. Breathing raggedly, she closed her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. Suddenly she struck out with the knife, gouging the tree, shredding the rich brown bark. Again and again she struck out, till the ripe yellow wood beneath the bark gleamed in the bright sunlight. The blade slipped from her hands, and she crumpled to the ground. Great sobs racked her body as she flailed at the hard dirt.

  Yuri rolled over and felt himself retch. Thick red blood poured from the gaping hole in his face. He thrashed about in the thicket, praying he wouldn’t choke to death. A sound alerted him, and he lay still. Were they coming after him again? He prayed. He tried to move his neck, thinking he could ease the pain, but the heady scent of the wildflowers near him nauseated him and he knew he was going to be sick again. Don’t think about it, think of Katerina, he told himself. Think of her beautiful face; remember how soft she felt in your arms. Remember the feel of her lips on yours. Don’t think of the barbaric Tereks and don’t think of the hatred they have for Katlof and his Don Cossacks. Think only of Katerina. More blood spurted from his mouth as he opened his eyes and looked up at the bright, golden sunshine. My mind must be playing tricks, he thought as Katerina’s face came into his field of vision. The end must be near, and God was rewarding him by allowing him the vision of the Cossack girl. A wild animal sound escaped from his wounded throat as in the last moments of lucidity he realized she was real. He had been blessed with staying miraculously alive until he saw her once more. It was this slender hope that had pulled him through nearly a week of pain and delirium. Disbelief and horror danced in her eyes before she turned and ran.

  He must not allow her to think her people had done this to him. Somehow he must let her know that it was the Tereks who had severed his tongue and fingers and left him to die when he would not tell that which he had no knowledge of. If only he could communicate that he had suffered for her love. Even if he had known the secret, he would have carried it to his grave before revealing it. Perhaps she would be able to read these things in his eyes. He prayed again; his eyes closed tightly. When he opened them, she was standing over him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  It was Yuri, but only his dark eyes were recognizable. His face was a mass of dry, caked blood, and bloody stumps remained where his hands used to be. Deep gurgling, inhuman sounds escaped from him as his tortured eyes pleaded with her, begged her. She nodded slightly to show she understood. Her words were an agonized whisper: “Did my father’s men do this?” Yuri feebly shook his head. When he closed his eyes, her knife found its mark.

  Her eyes were cold and bitter as she covered his still body with the brush.

  Viciously, she dug her heels into the horse’s flanks and galloped across the grassy turf of the endless steppe.

  For hours she raced the spirited horse. Her frenzied mood transferred itself to the animal beneath her. She barely noticed when she left the greenery of the wooded steppe and emerged onto the vast wasteland of the endless eastern plain, reaching as far as the eye could see. There was nothing before her but virgin ground until she reached the Urals. The hot, dry wind licked at her face as the scorching, relentless sun beat down upon the tormented woman. She had to get as far away as she could, as fast as she could. She would never look back, not now, not ever. All she knew was that she had one more score to settle. One more reason for going to the Khan.

  If her father’s men hadn’t tracked Yuri, who had? Would Yuri lie to her when he was dying? Had she correctly interpreted the slight, infinitesimal shake of the head? Hot, scorching tears blinded her as she continued with her wild ride.

  She felt the beast beneath her gradually slow as she wiped at her glistening eyes. A village. She drew in the reins slowly and let the horse have its head. The gelding entered the town at a fast trot and stopped with no instruction from Katerina. She remained seated.

  A Cossack, who walked with a swaggering gait, came over. “Welcome,” he said gruffly.

  Katerina nodded. Her voice was emotionless as she told him of the raid and the slaughter of her people. The Cossack hetman’s eyes widened as he looked at the beautiful woman dressed in a man’s clothing. “How could this have happened to Vaschenko?”

  Ashamedly, her eyes downcast, t
he words painfully forced out: “My father and his men were drunk. They never knew what happened.” The Cossack shook his head sadly as she straightened up. “I’ll be riding for many days, can you spare me provisions?”

  The elderly Cossack nodded. He disappeared momentarily into a building, and when he reappeared he held a bulging sack in his hand.

  Katerina reached down for the offered food and water, and with a curt nod of thanks was off, riding as though the devil were at her heels.

  Several of the men of the village approached the hetman and looked at him expectantly.

  “Let her go. She is one of us. There is the fire of hell driving her. Never have I seen that look in anyone’s face. Not even in the Kat’s.”

  “Where is she going?” one of the men asked curiously.

  The hetman shrugged. “To hell, to put out that raging inferno that is consuming her.” Quietly, he speculatively watched as Katerina rode out into the desolation of the steppe. Where is she going? he wondered. Every Cossack needs a tribe. She has nothing, save an aged grandfather and more old men in that mountain fortress. Finding no answers, the hetman let his mind wander to the Terek Cossacks and wondered vaguely if they were responsible for her people’s deaths. He knew in his heart that as she made her way across the steppe the other Cossacks would brand her a renegade. There was no place in the Cossack heritage for a rebel, especially one who was a woman.

  Chapter 6

  For three days Katerina rode across the parched steppe, stopping only to sleep and to water her horse. On the fourth day she crossed into the Ural Mountains. At the base of the range she stopped the gelding for a moment while she pondered her next move. If I go north where the ridge is narrow and treeless, I’ll lose two days. Or I can cross through the southern section, which is laden with trees and much wider. From here, straight across this end, I could be through the mountains in four days. She frowned. It would be easier riding across the north ridge, and would probably take only a day to cross. I could lose four days getting to and from there, and I might ride into the first snow. She decided on a southerly trek; she would risk the steep terrain and thick forest. The Kat saw a pass directly ahead and decided she would ride her horse through the passes and walk the animal over the precipitous slopes. She dug her heels into the animal’s flanks and headed for the pass.