The Golden Horde

by Peter Morwood

  “And now I should say something ominous like, ‘I can arrange that,’” said Amragan tarkhan. “Yes?”

  “If you feel a need to state the obvious, feel free.”

  “Then I shall save my breath. But the Ilkhan Batu has no need to make slaves of the Rus peasants. Their lords do that work quite well enough, and Ilkhan Batu has dominion over them. If your sturdy people ever become true slaves, serfs, you call them, it will be because a Russian, not a Tatar, found it convenient to make them so.”

  Ivan toyed uneasily with a scrap of meat on his platter and said nothing. Slavery in the sense of iron fetters had been what he meant, not the invisible bondage of labour promised by contract against a loan of grain or use of land. Such an contract might be made for anything from one year to ten, but the obligation could seldom be discharged and often the work such a peasant performed was no more than payment of interest on the original loan. Amragan tarkhan knew a deal too much for political small-talk with him to be comfortable for very long.

  “So I’ll be the slave instead?” he said at last.

  “As there is one Everlasting Sky,” said the Turk, gesturing sloppily upwards with his cup, “so on the earth there should be one ruler, and that is the Khan of all Khans. The Ilkhan Batu acts for the Great Khan, whether alive or dead. You will act for the Ilkhan Batu, as I do. This is not slavery.”

  “Yet he takes away my crown, the sign of my lordship in Khorlov.”

  Amragan tarkhan shrugged, and drank deeply. “The lordship is what is granted you by the Ilkhan of the Golden Horde, and no man will dare to question it. As for the crown, who will know? I have not yet seen you wear the Great Crown which he demands of you, only lesser things. Wear the lesser and name them great.”

  “It’s not …” Ivan began to say, then fell silent. Not the same, lacking in power, a pulling of my teeth? That isn’t your business. Or you know it already. “Never mind. What must I do to gain this grant of lordship from the Khan?”

  “Come with me to Sarai and pass through the fires. Bow to the East. Bow to the Ilkhan Batu and give up your crown. Pay the head-tax. Then you will be lord of Khorlov by his command, and he will make war on any who would try to depose you without his leave.”

  “And what about with his leave?” The Turk shrugged again, evidently deeming an explanation to that question superfluous. Ivan shook his head and made his mouth smile, then said, “Now about these fires —”

  He got no further, because a shadow came between him and the westering sunlight. Aleksey Mikhailovich Romanov stood there, swaying slightly, a goblet of wine in his hand and a smile of sorts on his face. He had the look of a man who had both drunk and overheard a great deal more than was good for him.

  “Equivocate, Tsar Ivan,” he said in a blurred voice. “Make him give you concessions for the loss of your crown. Of your realm. Of whatever honour the Khorlovskiy dynasty could still claim. Don’t simply do as he asks.”

  “You have a place, bogatyr,” Ivan said softly. “Go to it.”

  “My place is here,” said Aleksey Mikhailovich. “A bogatyr should be ready to defend his lord, even when that lord is no longer worthy of it.”

  “A bogatyr should be ready to obey his lord’s commands, and my command to you is sit down!”

  The young man shook his head and frowned, not so much in refusal of the order but as if he’d forgotten something important. He looked into the goblet as if expecting that the answer was in there with the wine, then drank deeply just in case it was.

  Amragan tarkhan watched the performance with an expression of tolerant humour on his face, drunk enough not to take immediate offence at anything the bogatyr had said so far and more amused at Ivan’s embarrassed discomfiture than anything else. “Are all your warriors such wilful children?” he asked.

  “I said sit down, Aleksey Mikhailovich. Must you be made to do so, like a” – Ivan hesitated, then deliberately used the Turk’s own words – “like a wilful child?”

  “Not yet. There’s something still needing done.”

  Ivan pushed himself back in his chair and drummed his fingers in exasperation on the table. “By me? By you? What?”

  “This!”

  The remnants of the bogatyr’s wine hit Amragan tarkhan full in the face, blinding him with its stinging splash for long enough to let Aleksey Mikhailovich throw down the empty goblet and rip his sword out of its scabbard. The blade came around in a long, hard swing that might have sheared the Tatar envoy’s head clean off his shoulders. It missed. Amragan tarkhan was still in his chair, but chair and man together were both flat on their backs where Tsar Ivan had wrenched them in the shocked instant as the sword was drawn.

  But it hadn’t completely failed to draw blood. There was a small clatter as Ivan’s pearl-drop earring fell onto the table, with most of his earlobe still gripped in its steel and silver clasp. He clapped one hand to the side of his head as the ear and a long straight cut along his cheek spurted blood in the way that such wounds will, out of all proportion to their size. There was a sound inside his skull like small bells, ringing, ringing… And then he saw the guards, both Tatar and Rus, come charging in with their weapons at the ready

  “No! Stand fast!”

  That command brought his own men to a standstill with Aleksey Mikhailovich Romanov at the centre of a ring of steel but still alive, and the sheer volume of his shout made the Tatars hesitate at least until Amragan tarkhan regained his feet. The envoy was obviously undamaged, except for spills of wine and food over his fine garments; but he was just as obviously shocked sober and in a towering rage, his mouth contorting as it shaped the orders that would have stamped Khorlov from the face of the wide white world. Then he saw the blood running between Ivan’s fingers, and his orders went unspoken. For the time being.

  Mar’ya Morevna came hurrying from her place as hostess at one of the other tables, pried Ivan’s reluctant hand away from his head and swore venomously at the ugly wound. He could hear his children crying somewhere in the distance beyond that clangour of bells, and a crackling sound like burning straw much closer. Ivan didn’t need to see the sparks crawl down Mar’ya Morevna’s arms to know they were there, but the Tatars gasped and drew back, which meant only that there were fewer in the queue to hack or blast or tear Aleksey bogatyr into dripping shreds.

  Volk Volkovich the Grey Wolf was there too, and though his face was completely human, his eyes as they met Ivan’s were anything but.

  “Only say the word.” It was more snarl than speech, but Ivan shook his head, heedless of the drops of blood that movement spattered over the grass like rubies sown for harvesting.

  “No.” Talking hurt, since it moved the muscles in his right cheek that the sword-point had gouged. “Not you.” He gripped Mar’ya Morevna’s wrist and felt a heat in the flesh like metal left too near the fire. “Nor you, and,” Ivan turned to face Amragan tarkhan, “most definitely not you.”

  “He tried to kill me,” said the Turk. “Because of what you did, I will forget my duty to the Ilkhan Batu, and remember only that I am tarkhan. If he wants my head so much, then I have the right to try for his. Like a man, not an assassin. Sword to sword.”

  “I said no,” said Ivan, trying not to mumble the words. “You’re my guest. You ate my bread and salt. The treacherous son of an unwed bitch was my councillor. Any right to his head is mine.”

  “Ivan,” said the Grey Wolf in a low voice, “be careful of this one.”

  “He’s a drunken fool.”

  “Fool I can’t question; but I saw him draw his sword, and he was sober enough then. I think the Tatar was never in any danger. He wants you.”

  “What?”

  “He know you daren’t let something so impersonal as the law deal with his attack on Amragan tarkhan, not if you hope to avert what the Tatar might do to Khorlov. So now he has a chance to put a sword through you in ‘fair’ fight – though I think you’re also more sober than he hoped. My friend, your drinking habits on occasions like this are
too well known. They’ll be your undoing.”

  “To prevent Khorlov being destroyed by the Tatars, he puts himself at risk of being killed …?” The clanging ache in Ivan’s head had surely driven out all sensible thought, for he felt certain that he was missing something obvious. “Why not just sit still instead?”

  “Because his father Mikhail Romanov could make himself Tsar after you were dead, and make his own pact for peace with the Khan. He has the support to do it among the councillors and boyaryy who oppose your policies, your lady, your freedom with the Art Magic. You know their names well enough by now.”

  “No matter what happened, Aleksey would be dead. If I didn’t kill him, Amragan tarkhan surely would.”

  “The bogatyr may be a willing sacrifice for his father. Or an unwitting one. But Mikhail Romanov would be Tsar regardless.”

  “And the children?” Mar’ya Morevna wadded up a soft cloth, dipped it in water mixed with tincture of poppy-seeds and began to clean the ribbons of drying blood from Ivan’s face, a business that needed her attention no matter what the subject of the conversation might be.

  “Noble Lady,” said the Grey Wolf patiently, “the question is unworthy of your wisdom. If the boyar Mikhail is content to see his own son dead, what value will he place on another man’s wife and little ones?”

  “Thank you,” said Mar’ya Morevna. “I just wanted to hear someone say it aloud.”

  “Lady, you may leave Mikhail Romanov to me.” Volk Volkovich grinned, and his teeth glinted. “Unless you want him yourself?”

  “All I want him is dead.”

  First Minister Strel’tsin came bustling up as quickly as his aged limbs allowed, but late for all that since his dignity in public places hadn’t permitted him to run. “Majesty, you’re the Tsar of Khorlov,” he said at once, ignoring the look that his use of the forbidden title drew from Amragan tarkhan. “As such, you may not hazard your person —”

  Ivan produced a wincing smile that included both Strel’tsin and the Tatar envoy, as well as several emotional states. The pain from his ear and face was fast dying down to a dull throb, so that both talking and thinking were easier. “I’ve heard that one before, Dmitriy Vasil’yevich,” he said. “A long time ago. But as Amragan tarkhan will tell you as many times as need be, in the eyes of the Ilkhan Batu and the Golden Horde, I’m no longer Tsar of anywhere. Just a Prince. And until you take the time to rewrite the appropriate statutes, there’s no law in Khorlov that forbids a Prince to defend himself and his honour. In fact, if I remember rightly …”

  “Yes, Majesty. Er, Highness. You do remember rightly. The laws of trial by combat.”

  “There. So make yourself useful. Even more useful. Have someone go to my chambers in the kremlin and fetch …” Ivan turned slowly and stared at Aleksey Mikhailovich Romanov. “No. Send them to the armoury. Bring me my father’s sword.”

  The chosen guardsman was back within a few minutes, out of breath and sweating inside his mail, but with the straight, heavy shpaga in his hands. It was a sword of the North people, as old as the Rus themselves. Ivan took it and drew the broad blade, the weapon’s heft and balance quite different to his more usual light Cossack sabre. Its massive pommel and thick short crossguard made the hilt fit more closely to his hand, restricting any dainty finger-play, but that same restriction made the shpaga feel like a natural extension of his whole arm: shoulder, elbow, wrist, blade. He held it up to the light, and the edges glittered with a cobweb-fine crosshatch of honing marks.

  Aleksey Mikhailovich watched him and laughed harshly. Condemned to death by his actions unless he could buy back his life with the death of his own lord, he had given up his pretence of drunkenness and now watched preparations with a coldly rational eye. “Will you kill me, Majesty?” he said. Ivan stared at him but didn’t waste breath on a reply. “Or will I kill you? Alive or dead, you remain a coward and traitor. Before we begin, I want you to know that.”

  The common people had been pushed back outside a circle whose perimeter was marked out by Rus and Tatar spears, turn and turn about. Unasked and more unwanted than he guessed, Archbishop Levon Popovich was striding to and fro within it, sprinkling holy water everywhere, accompanied by a train of priests all waving censers with such energy that the heavy smell of incense all but masked the scents of well-cooked food.

  “Will you wear armour?” asked Amragan tarkhan. For all his efforts to be a disinterested observer, the Turk was as fascinated as anyone else right down to the lowest scullery servant crowded around the circle of spears. Ivan considered a moment.

  “No,” he said at last. “Why prolong matters? Sword and shield are good enough.” He pulled off the velvet kaftan, now dark and stiff on one side of the collar, and tried the weight of one shield after another from the half-dozen or so contributed by his guards before picking a round iron-rimmed wooden one with an iron boss over its hand-grip. He settled it against his forearm, looped the cross-strap around his neck, then glanced at Aleksey Mikhailovich and the soldiers surrounding the bogatyr moved aside without needing to be told.

  They closed behind him again as soon as he was within the combat circle, but Ivan felt sure his adversary had no thought of escape. He recalled the way Aleksey stared at him from other times and other places. Koshchey the Undying had that same look, hungry and hating; so had Dieter Balke, the Teutonic Landmeister, though his hatred had been tempered by a brutal merriment. But the looks had all one thing in common; they wanted to kill.

  Ivan Aleksandrovich of Khorlov came on guard in the proper manner for his chosen weapons, shield advanced and angled to deflect the blows rather than block them, sword poised to work around the shield-rim with that vicious snapping motion as though the three-foot blade was no more than a riding whip. He did so just in time, for Aleksey wasted no time on assuming formal fighting postures. Instead he feinted a high cut and as Ivan’s shield moved, slammed his own shield against its edge to pull it aside and thrust his already-bloodied sword through the sudden opening.

  Ivan felt the chill of it go by as he jerked his head aside. The straight stab was all that saved him; a long cut would have gone through whatever space his head had left to dodge in. He hooked his own sword-hand over Aleksey’s outstretched forearm and wrenched down on it, trying to pull the extended sword from the man’s hand or even with luck break his arm at the elbow.

  It didn’t work; Aleksey Romanov’s extra four inches of height prevented Ivan from gaining enough leverage either to break, pull or throw. But he was still able to keep the man from recovering his sword for another blow, and protected by that he spun around the axis of the locked shields. For one hazardous second his unguarded back was to his enemy, but with the bogatyr’s arm still well caught, there was nothing that Aleksey could do, either to attack or to defend himself as Ivan completed his turn, broke the lock on his shield and lashed back-handed with the rim.

  It struck with a soggy impact that missed the spine Ivan had hoped to snap but not one of the kidneys, and Aleksey howled as he went staggering forward. The Tsar of Khorlov regained balance and came after him, sword raised to cut him across the lower back. Aleksey reeled around far enough to block with his shield, and Ivan’s swordblade screeched as it stuttered across rivets in a shower of sparks and planed away a long curl of wood. His own shield boomed an instant later as it stopped a wild swing from the bogatyr’s sword, then went heavy. Ivan knew what had happened at once, and wrenched sideways with all his strength. The shield creaked, groaned – and then its handle snapped and it went flying.

  Tsar Ivan didn’t care. Aleksey had sheared through the thin iron of the rim, almost clipping a handspan of meat from Ivan’s bicep, but jammed his blade immovably into the close-grained planks beneath. When the shield spun away, the bogatyr’s sword went with it. He still had his own shield, but Ivan had his father’s sword. Shifting the heavy shpaga into both hands, clumsily because the weapon’s grip wasn’t really big enough, Ivan advanced on Aleksey Mikhailovich Romanov and in a score of sha
ttering blows, reduced the other man’s shield to matchwood and tatters and sent him sprawling on his back.

  They stared at each other, panting, and Aleksey’s look of hatred was undiminished. “Kill me,” he managed to say between the gasps and a racking fit of coughs, “kill me a thousand times, and still you won’t be right!”

  He might have been dying already, from that frightful chop across the back, but Tsar Ivan wasn’t prepared to wait for a traitor to die in his own time. “Maybe so,” he said wearily, putting one booted foot on Aleksey’s chest and resting his swordpoint beneath the man’s chin, “but you’ll be no less dead.” He crossed both hands on the pommel and leaned down with all his weight.

  There was cheering, uncertain at first because of the expression on Ivan’s face as he walked away from the upright sword driven through meat and bone and gristle into the earth beneath, then more full-throated with every passing second. The Tsar’s honour had been vindicated and his decisions proven right by nothing less than victory in combat before the judgment of Heaven. The Tatars were still not friends and allies, but at least they weren’t going to destroy the city because of the actions of one stupid young warrior. There was still food uneaten and drink undrunk…

  Ivan felt his mouth move in response, sure that it was no smile, but without a mirror unsure what the muscles of his face were doing. He hadn’t felt frightened either before or during the fight, but now it was over and he was still alive, he felt sick. It wasn’t reaction to killing Aleksey Romanov, but something deeper. Mar’ya Morevna met him at the edge of the combat circle, reached out and took his hand, and he was grateful for the simple contact. Then he gazed past her to where Amragan tarkhan was engaged in some conversation with the captain of his guard, and Ivan recognized that queasy feeling in his belly as disgust.

  “We used to blame each other for surviving the invasion more or less unscathed,” he said at last, his voice miserable. “It’s gone beyond that now. They don’t even have to kill us; we’re doing it ourselves on their behalf. I think the Golden Horde has truly won at last …”