by K L Conger
The Khan tried with all his strength to wriggle his other wrist free of Taras’s grasp. Taras held on, and the man threw his body backward, trying to get away. Being a well-fed noble, he weighed three times what Taras did. Thrusting himself back so violently, he stumbled over a dead body that lay spread-eagled on the wall, and lost his footing.
Taras concentrated on hanging on to the man, but registered movement out of the corner of his eye. Nikolai. When the Khan stumbled precariously close to the edge of the wall, Nikolai dove in to catch his other wrist. The Khan jerked backward, trying to get away from Taras and Nikolai without falling to his death.
Nikolai was wrenched forward onto his stomach with such force that his legs were thrown out over the drop. He held onto the top of the wall by his fingers. The Khan also fell over the side; Taras gritted his teeth, straining with every muscle to hold on to him.
Nikolai hung from the ramparts two feet from the Khan. His fingers would only hold out so long. His knuckles trembled.
Still holding the Khan by one hand, Taras held his other above Nikolai’s white knuckles. Nikolai took a few breaths, readying himself, then let go of the wall with both hands and clasped them around Taras’s wrist.
Taras was yanked forward, and they all nearly plummeted to their deaths on the rocky cliffs below. He only barely held on. He squatted, holding on to two men, both of whom were bigger than he. His calves, thighs, shoulders, and arms shook with the effort.
Nikolai threw his backside outward, putting his feet flat against the stone wall, and climbed. The Khan hung there, limp and helpless in his bulk.
“Please, young man,” his eyes held fear, “don’t let me fall. I don’t remember your name, but I remember you. In Siberia, remember? I took an interest in you.”
When Taras spoke, it came through gritted teeth and streams of sweat.
“Why are you fleeing the city? Aren’t you allied with the tsar?”
The Khan glanced over his shoulder to the jagged cliffs below. His eyes darted back and forth.
“Yes, but the tsar does not know I am here. I feared of being mistaken for a Tatar of Kazan and treated like a prisoner of war. I needed to get the tsar’s attention. If taken prisoner, the guards would never believe me—” Taras’s hold on both men slipped, and the Khan, sensing it, talked faster. “Prisoners are never given an audience with the tsar. So I ran, you see.”
Taras understood. He’d always been perceptive.
“What you mean is,” his teeth were still gritted, “you are supposed to be loyal to the tsar, but here you are, secretly negotiating with his enemies. If he found you here, he’d execute you for disloyalty. For treason.”
The Khan’s eyes no longer darted back and forth. They fixed on his own wrist, slipping steadily through Taras’s grip. “Yes. You must help me. I am a powerful man. We two could have a secret alliance. I could give you wealth and power beyond the wildest dreams of a soldier.”
Nikolai made good progress. He climbed high enough that Taras had to raise his arm up so Nikolai could climb the rest of the way. Most of Nikolai’s weight was still on him, though.
Ice covered the wall. They hadn't seen snow in a month, but the weather wasn't warm enough to melt the ice. Nikolai must have stepped on a patch of it, because he lost his footing and fell. Hard. Taras again jerked violently forward. The muscles in his neck felt like they were tearing. A terrible fear of not having the strength to hold on to his friend rose in his gut.
“Please, young man,” the Khan sounded more desperate by the second. “I took an interest in you. I—”
Taras tuned him out. Time to make a decision. He’d already made it, in truth, but following through was difficult. The Khan was a traitor, but also a human being, right there, inches from Taras, and in his grasp.
Nikolai’s hand slipped inches further so he and Taras clasped hands instead of arms. That was enough for Taras. He would not trade the life of his friend, a good man and soldier of Russia, for a Tatarian traitor.
Feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him, he opened his hand.
The Khan did not scream or cry out. Rather, he froze. Terror seized his face, his eyes, and he fell backward, as if in slow motion.
Taras tore his gaze away from the Khan and clasped his other hand securely around Nikolai’s forearm. Planting his feet, he heaved with all his might. It brought Nikolai’s torso up onto the top of the wall. Taras rested only a second before grabbing Nikolai’s bicep and dragging him the rest of the way up. Sickening thunking sounds that got fainter as they went—the Khan’s body bouncing on the cliffs below—reached his ears.
The two men sat side by side, panting and aching for several minutes. The khan’s servant stirred beside them.
“Thank you,” Nikolai said.
Taras raised his eyebrows briefly. “Sorry it took so long.”
Chapter 39
Taras did not see Sergei again, except from across the field. The army breached the deepest antechamber of the khan’s palace less than an hour after the Russians entered. The pretender to the khanate, as well as his wife and son, were taken to the tsar in chains.
When the fighting ended, and only the keening wails of women and children drifted in the air—cushioned by the cheery laughter of the Russians, clapping each other on the back and fingering their spoils—a carpet of bodies covered the ground from one end of Kazan to the other. Even the rooms of the buildings were cluttered with corpses, as well as the ground outside the walls for several hundred feet.
Hours later, the army stood on the plain of Arsk, which, beyond the bodies ringing the city walls, stood relatively clear. The army stood on foot, radiating out from a central spot where the tsar sat in gleaming armor astride a radiant white horse. His generals formed the closest ring around him. Behind them stood the lesser generals and officers, including Taras. From there, the army stood, sometimes according to rank. Most of the noncombatants from the camp came to the plain to see the ceremony. They were too far away for Taras to tell if Inga stood among them.
“My people,” Ivan raised a fist above his head. His impeccable armor sparkled in the sunlight. “Victory is ours!”
A deafening cheer went up from the crowd, the sound radiating in waves. Ivan let them cheer for several minutes before raising his fist for quiet. “We have only come by this victory by the grace of God and the prayers of the Most Pure Mother and of the saints of Moscow and of all Russia. God has made me, for my humility, Lord of Great Russia and of the eastern kingdom of Kazan.”
The cheers rose again, and Ivan made no move to stop them. He embraced several of his generals from atop his horse and beamed proudly at the crowd.
“You are not pleased with the victory?” Nikolai’s voice came from Taras’s elbow. He smiled briefly at his friend, though he didn't feel it.
“Of course I am. A long day.”
Nikolai kept his steady gaze on Taras’s face. Taras sighed, looking away. On the other side of the tsar’s circle, he could see Sergei, toasting with several other men. He wore a jewel-bedecked crown on his head—booty from the palace, no doubt.
“I find enemies where I thought to find friends, and friends among our enemies.” Taras thought of Almas, wondering what had become of him.
“Such is the nature of war.”
“I know.” He looked at Nikolai, wanting to explain how he felt, but not knowing how. His chest was a turmoil of pain, fear, and despair. Throwing something like victory into the mix felt . . . odd.
“Come, Taras,” Nikolai’s hand on his shoulder felt both jovial and consoling, “Of course war is a difficult business. Any man who tries to tell you differently is either a fool or a madman."
Taras glanced up at Sergei again.
“Take the good where you can find it," Nikolai continued. "We’ve won this battle; the tsar is in good spirits; you fought well. Tonight, go to your woman and be content in our victory.”
Taras glanced at Nikolai’s encouraging smile and, after a moment, returned i
t. He supposed Nikolai was right. Life was never easy, nor as black and white as the sovereign in front of him would have his people believe. Taras could only be responsible for his own actions. They'd achieved victory, and things could have been much worse.
The deep, resonating voice of a royal herald interrupted Taras’s thoughts.
“All hail Ivan Vasilivich Grozny the IV, Tsar of all Russia and the eastern kingdoms.” The generals around Ivan clapped a fist to their chests and went to one knee. Those behind followed and, in a great wave, the entire multitude which stretched several miles back, bowed before the first tsar of Russia.
Grozny meant great or terrible. A fitting name for the tsar. When the multitude stood, the Khan and his family were brought before Ivan.
“Tell them,” Ivan spoke to an interpreter, “that according to our merciful custom, we reprieve them from the sentence of death, and order them to be released from their bonds.” When the message was translated and the bonds released, the former Khan came forward and kissed the stirrup of Ivan’s horse, before he and his family prostrated themselves on the ground.
“Ivan,” Nikolai spoke quietly, for Taras’s ears only, “has been many things in his past; many things for so young a man. Today he is a good man. Today, despite what his individual soldiers may have done, he has led his people to victory.” Nikolai turned his head to look at Taras. “Today he is the tsar Russia needs him to be.”
Taras nodded, watching the young tsar with awe. He was an enigma, a child-god on earth standing before them, and a magnificent specter of a ruler.
Something would have to be done about Sergei. Eventually. The thought that Sergei had wanted—and probably still did want—Inga in his bed made Taras sick to his stomach. He didn’t want to think about what might have happened to her. He couldn’t protect all the women in the palace from men like Sergei, but he could protect Inga. With God as his witness, he would keep her safe.
Thoughts like those were dangerous. Sergei came from a powerful family. If Taras took him on, he would not be taking on one man, but an entire clan. Perhaps even the tsar. Sergei’s family remained loyal to Ivan. So much in the Russian court lay beyond Taras's control.
He still needed answers about his mother’s death. He intended to keep seeking them, no matter how long it took. Yet another thing to divide his attention.
And Almas—what could he do about Almas? What could he possibly do?
Taras shut his eyes. If he ran though all his worries, he’d go mad. His head still felt too jumbled from battle. He took a deep, cleansing breath.
Nikolai’s eyes slid toward Taras. He said nothing, pretending not to notice Taras’s struggle.
Life in Russia had proved much more complicated than he would have thought possible. Parts of him—parts he’d been certain he had an iron grasp on—were slipping away.
Chapter 40
THE NIGHT FELT DARK and cold, but not sinister. The army remained in good spirits. They'd eaten well and drank their fill of mead in celebration. The city and all the prisoners were well guarded, and no one expected trouble tonight. Taras could use the fact to his advantage. He waited until midnight before rising and dressing in the dark.
The swish of blankets startled him. Inga sat up. He still wasn’t used to sharing his bed with someone.
“Taras, where are you going?”
He sat on the side of the bed and put a hand on her arm. “There’s something I have to do. Inga, I need you to not ask me what it is.”
She stayed silent for a long time before whispering, “All right.”
He nodded. “Thank you. Go back to sleep. I’m not sure how long I’ll be—a few hours, maybe—so try and rest. Inga, no one can know I went out tonight.”
He heard her swallow. “They won’t hear it from me.”
Leaning his weight on one knee on the bed, he kissed her forehead, then her lips. “I’ll be back soon.” She still sat upright when he donned his cloak, slung a heavy leather satchel over one shoulder, and slipped into the frigid night.
He skulked silently in the dark, narrow lanes made by hundreds of soldiers’ tents, waiting for a patrol to pass. Wrapping himself in the sable cloak, he hunkered down in the shadows as the two-man guard passed within feet of him. He worried about how easily assassins could infiltrate the camp if this represented the level of security they kept.
When they were gone, Taras resumed his trek. The snow was so packed, it had frozen in the walking paths. He made no sound and left no tracks.
He made it to the horses and saddled Jasper. The horse made no noise or objection. He’d brought several dark blankets to drape over the horse’s light-colored skin. It would help shield them from unwanted eyes. A combination of stealth and patience helped Taras get outside the camp unseen. When he got clear, he mounted his horse and rode hard to the walls of Kazan.
It was not difficult to get inside. Less security existed here than in the tsar’s camp. Getting into the dungeons would be harder. He’d already planned for that part.
Taras tied Jasper to a sturdy bush under a large, low-hanging tree. The drooping branches would hide the horse from any passing patrols. Taras made a note of the location so he could find his horse again easily, and then headed deeper into the city on foot.
He moved by moonlight, careful not to trip or walk into anything that would make noise. He stopped three times to wait for patrols to pass. None noticed him. Finally, he reached his destination.
Prisons in Kazan were not much more than holes in the ground. The one he needed could be reached only by descending a ladder into a cavern beneath an ordinary looking building. Once underground, the cavern extended for miles, twisting and turning in the darkness. It wasn’t all closed off cells. In many cases, prisoners lay shackled directly to the walls. Others wandered or dragged themselves around. These people were injured too badly to worry about them escaping.
A single soldier guarded the door leading down into the pit. He played cards on a makeshift table. Taras came around the corner, and the man drew his sword half-way from its scabbard before recognizing him. Taras put a small bag of silver into the man’s hands, feeling as though he were paying Judas Iscariot, and the man promptly turned his back, pretending not to see Taras pulling up the trap door.
A pair of torches lit the guard’s game. Taras took one with him. The ladder stood twice as high as Taras was tall. Half-way down, it wobbled; a little further, it creaked. Taras leapt off, rather than risk the noise. He dropped to the ground with a dull thud and held the torch out in front of him.
Just as he expected, prisoners were chained to the walls or lying against them. Periodically he passed padlocked cells, but for the most part, they sprawled about on their own, dirty, shivering, crying, mumbling to themselves, sometimes chanting. The floor was not so much dirt as mud. The air felt cold and clammy. Taras shivered as he moved among them, feeling a quiet pity he hadn’t expected.
After what seemed like hours, Taras came to the cell he wanted. This cell was all bars—floor to ceiling. They were made of wood, so solid and sturdily mounted in the bedrock of the cavern that, without an ax, they would be impossible to escape. Taras held his torch out. A dozen or so men squinted painfully in its light. Taras ran the light across each face three times before recognizing the one he wanted.
“Almas?”
Almas shuffled forward, between the other men, to get to the bars.
“Taras, my friend.” Almas sounded jovial, but strain permeated his voice. “Late for a social call, isn’t it?”
“Hardly the place for a social call, I think.”
“Then why have you come?”
“I’m not sure.” Taras kept silent a few moments. “I’m sorry, Almas. I hardly expected to find anyone I know here. I was shocked to see you.”
“As I was to see you.”
“What are you doing here?” Taras asked
“I live in a little village many leagues west of Kazan. My companions and I travel far and wide—sometimes as far a
s Moscow, as you know—to trade our country’s wares. I'd come to Kazan for that purpose when your tsar attacked it.”
Taras nodded. “If I remember correctly, you have a family?”
“Yes. A wife and son.”
“Are they within the walls?”
“No. They are in my home village, far to the west. Winter is coming and my son is too little to travel far in cold weather. Besides, this trip to Kazan was not meant to be a long one. All that changed when the siege began.”
Taras stayed silent, digesting Almas's words. Almas was a good man; one with a family. He’d been kind to Taras once, and Taras wanted to return the favor.
“Taras, my friend, what are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You come down here at great risk to yourself to ask me about my family, who are far away. Why? Your countrymen have proved themselves brutal and greedy. You are not like them. I see it. Why do you run with them? Why do you follow this Russian Caesar when you are English?”
“You forget, I am also Russian.”
Almas kept silent for a long time. “May I remind you of something?”
“Of course.”
“When we first met in Siberia, I felt curiousity about you. Then you killed that wolf. A magnificent creature. One of beauty and savagery most men cannot comprehend. Even now I see the moonlight glistening on its fur. It sliced through the night like a demon on a rampage. You stepped directly into its path and met it with your sword. You stood magnificent, unafraid, with no qualms about what needed to be done. I'd never seen such conviction, such strength of character. Does that conviction slip now?”
Taras had no answer.
“I could be wrong, but I’ve heard stories of your tsar. When his deeds rear up worse and worse, remember you slew a demon of a she-wolf in the vast reaches of Siberia. You know what must be done, Taras. Don’t shirk from it now.”
