Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  Silence filled the square. Almas felt the other Tatars rally behind him.

  Ivan stood, and the Russians immediately deferred to him. He took two steps toward Almas. “Curse me, heathen? How can He curse me? Do you not understand? My legacy will live forever. My son shall follow me, and his him, for generations. Even God cannot stay my hand. If my actions displeased him, he would put an end to them, would he not?”

  Many in the crowd chuckled appreciatively.

  Almas prayed briefly for the correct answer to come to his lips. He spoke without thinking. “Mark me, Ivan Grozny. One day the blood you have taken will be taken from you. God shall put an end to your...generations sooner than you think.”

  Ivan smiled indulgently. “I think not, Heathen.” His gaze slid toward Skuratov. “Kill them.”

  The crowd cheered as guards came forward to lay hands on the prisoners. The Tatars did not need to speak to one another. They stood back to back, waiting until the guards stood only a pace from them to spring into action. Almas fingered the jagged metal concealed in his sleeve, scavenged from the prison. The others hid similar weapons. Only two didn’t: one man who'd fallen terribly ill in the cell, and another who already nursed an injury. They could not fight and, when prodded out into the square, the Tatars quickly surrounded their wounded.

  Now, every man except the two invalids threw themselves at a guard. Almas lunged at the one in front of him. The man’s eyes widened in surprise right before Almas tackled him. Putting the soles of his feet on the man’s stomach Almas squatted on the man's abdomen and his knife into the man’s heart.

  Almas glanced up to see another Tatar bury his knife in Skuratov’s stomach. They were winning. Their actions—and their weapons—took the Russians so much by surprise that they still hadn't caught up. Each of the Tatar fighting men had killed at least two Russians already, except for Almas. Almas turned toward Ivan, whose face grew dark with anger. Almas knew what he must do.

  Springing to his feet, he made a straight line for the Tsar. Ivan noticed him coming and backed away. Almas nearly made it. A foot from the dais, he hit a brick wall. A white-hot pain filled his gut. He looked down to see a protruding hilt, half-covered by a blood-spattered hand. My blood. He turned to find an Oprichniki soldier standing beside him, hand on the hilt. The man twisted the blade in his gut and Almas's vision blurred. The pain deafened him, swallowing him in its vibrations.

  He lay on his back. His eyes registered bodies in front of him. His fellow Tatar prisoners faced him with staring eyes and unmoving chests.

  So, they hadn’t won after all. He'd not truly believed they would. He raised his head to examine his own body. Blood—pitchers of it—gushed from his abdomen, beneath the belt line. He couldn’t see his insides, but felt them seeping out.

  Ivan was being rushed from the square, shouting and cursing about the importance of his own safety. Almas registered Ivan’s orders that all Tatar prisoners be “put down.”

  Then the white-hot pain became white light.

  Chapter 28

  NOVGOROD, FEBRUARY 1550

  Taras gazed down at the Tsar’s encampment from the ridge above, studying it with worry. When the arctic, Siberian wind whipped across the rise, he pulled his sable cloak tighter against the cold, holding it closed at the neck. It clasped there anyway, but the bitter January wind kept whipping it off his shoulders. Being the commanding officer of the supply train, he rode out in front on horseback. An icy place to be. He hardly felt his fingers anymore. His toes, concealed in thick leather boots, were little better. For the hundredth time, he smashed his fur shakpa further down on his head to keep the wind from claiming it.

  The Tsar’s camp sprawled on the bank of the Volkhov River, set up in the shadow of ancient ruins. The river ran through unsettled country here. A mile and a half to the north, it transected the city of Novgorod.

  The ruins had once been a great castle, built by Prince Rurik, the ancient founder of Russia and supposed ancestor of the Tsar. Taras couldn’t call the name of the primeval castle to mind. It sprawled across the snow-covered meadow, its ancient glory manifested only in chunks of stone littering the bank of the Volkhov. The tallest standing portion stood only one third the height of the Terem Castle and leaned drunkenly out over the river, like a being contemplating suicide but with no power to follow through.

  From what Taras could tell, the Tsar’s camp stood nearly empty. Neither the Tsar, nor any of the Oprichniki soldiers occupied it. With the city so close, Taras assumed the army went there. Only a few servants and retainers moved bleakly among the tents.

  Taras couldn’t make out much from this distance. All movement he saw looked slurred, stilted in some way, as though all those left in camp were drunk, or unstable. He supposed, with the army away, perhaps a few of the servants took liberties. Even that seemed odd, and surely not all of them should be moving like that. The stillness of the scene did not calm him, though. On the contrary, it quickened his heartbeat. Setting his jaw with grim determination, he nudged Jasper’s flanks with his heels and started down the rise.

  No one outside the ranks of the Oprichniki knew of the Tsar’s expedition to Novgorod until the Tsar arrived at its walls. Ivan used the scenic route, through the modest town of Klin, and then through the city of Tver. He took great pains to bypass the larger cities so his army of three thousand could move through the countryside stealthily. When Ivan arrived at Novgorod, he sent a courier back to Moscow for supplies.

  Nikolai led the first supply train, which left Moscow three weeks before Taras. When the second one was ready, the clerks put Taras in charge and told him his supply train was smaller than Nikolai’s because the Tsar only planned to be in Novgorod a short while longer. By the time Taras arrived, the Tsar would be ready to leave within the week, and most of the supplies needed for the journey home could be gathered from Novgorod itself. Taras looked forward to seeing Nikolai, who would no doubt give him a true report of the Tsar’s deeds here.

  The closer Taras got to the city, the less he wanted to arrive. Even if he hadn’t known the way, he could have simply tracked Ivan by the trail of carnage left in his wake. The cities of Klin and Tver had been utterly devastated. To keep anyone from sending messages about the army’s passage, Ivan ordered a general massacre, leaving no one alive. Men, women, and children alike lay beside clergymen and town leaders in the streets. Ivan even ordered the animals slaughtered, though much of the livestock accompanied the army to Novgorod.

  Taras supposed he should be used to Ivan having no problem doing this to his own people, but it still sickened him. The only reason Ivan could have for murdering the people of Klin and Tver—other than his own sick entertainment—was to keep his journey secret. At all costs, Ivan wanted the city of Novgorod ignorant of his pending arrival, no matter the human cost. If things were this bad en route, what would he find when he reached the city?

  The inactivity of the encampment meant the Tsar and his men must be inside the walls. The thought made his pulse race and his stomach feel delicate. Yet, he could hardly drop the shipment on the ridge and head back to Moscow. He made his way toward the graveyard of an encampment on the bank of Volkhov and hoped for the best. The supply wagons—sledges, in truth, since several feet of white powder still lay between them and the earth—followed.

  As they neared the camp, a rider emerged on horseback and galloped toward them. As horse and rider neared, Taras recognized Nikolai and smiled with relief. Nikolai's course intersected with Taras's at the edge of the large meadow in which the camp sprawled. As Nikolai drew close enough for Taras to make out the details of his face, Taras’s stomach constricted further.

  Nikolai, like Taras, was both a boyar and a soldier. As soldiers, their physiques stayed trim and muscular, unlike most other boyars whose food sat perpetually around their belt lines. Nikolai usually looked healthy, well fed, and in top physical condition. When Taras caught sight of his face, Taras could have sworn he stared at a dying man.

  Nikolai
had lost weight in the three weeks since Taras had seen him. He looked smaller, slighter of build, and his clothes hung on him. The lines of his neck, and those around his eyes had deepened noticeably, as though he wasn’t sleeping. Dark circles underscored his eyes, which held a ghostly, haunted look. Even when Nikolai gazed directly at him, Taras didn't think his friend truly saw him, but rather stared through him, at something Taras couldn’t comprehend.

  Their horses drew closer until they stood side by side, facing in opposite directions. Nikolai stared at Taras, silent and blank-faced. No smile, no greeting, no recognition.

  “Nikolai?”

  Nikolai stared directly at Taras, but still jumped in his saddle when Taras spoke, as though the sound of Taras’s deep voice stunned him.

  “Nikolai, are you all right?”

  “I’m...” Nikolai trailed off and his eyes left Taras’s. They wandered the snow-covered meadow around him and Taras didn’t think he would finish the thought. “As you see,” he finally said. When his eyes returned to Taras’s face, fear made Taras colder than the wind ever could. Nikolai’s eyes had turned from blue to gray and they undulated with the presence of something unseen. They reminded Taras of the sea after a storm, when sea monsters danced beneath the surface, making the water heave and swell for no obvious or explicable reason.

  “I see you, my friend,” Taras said. “And you look terrible. Are you ill?”

  Nikolai shook his head. “No. Not ill.”

  Taras’s eyebrows arched. He glanced around, trying to understand, but Nikolai’s gaze had fallen again. Taras leaned out of his saddle, trying to get under Nikolai’s line of sight. Nikolai looked up at him again.

  “Nikolai, what’s wrong?”

  Nikolai's eyes grew moist. Taras had known Nikolai for several years now. He’d never seen the man cry. Now Nikolai's eyes watered. The fear in Taras’s middle expanded.

  Taras's shoulders trembled, but whether because of the bone-chilling cold or the soul-piercing fear, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was both. “Where’s the Tsar?”

  The less personal question brought Nikolai out of his stupor. “In the city.”

  Taras rubbed his hand across his mouth and jaw, frustrated. Nikolai should be giving him his orders. His short, nonspecific answers were unnerving. “Does he want the supplies left here, or brought into the city?”

  “He wants them in the city. I’m to lead you there.”

  Nikolai still sat there, astride his horse, like a statue, his eyes far away.

  “Should we...go?”

  When Nikolai met his gaze again, his eyes held such agony that Taras's heart ached. Nikolai’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Please, could we stay out here a little longer? It’s quiet here, peaceful.” His eyes swept the muted hills and valleys of the surrounding landscape. “I will forever associate snow-covered meadows with...peace.”

  The way Nikolai hesitated before finishing the last word made Taras think he wanted to say more. “What kind of peace? What do you mean?”

  Nikolai looked at Taras again. Tears coursed freely down his cheeks. “The kind only found outside the walls of hell.”

  Taras stared at his friend. The supply train came to a halt several yards behind them. The wind would carry their conversation away from the supply wagons, but those in front might see Nikolai’s tears.

  “We can stay as long as you want, Nikolai.”

  The other man nodded his thanks, then turned his horse to face the same direction as Taras’s. They sat side by side, looking toward the city. Taras still fought to keep his cloak closed against the wind. Nikolai engaged in no such struggle. The wind whipped the other man’s cloak around his shoulders. It flapped violently out behind him like an ominous standard. Nikolai seemed oblivious. Nikolai’s hands were bare, and a vague worry tickled the back of Taras’s mind. Nikolai might get the freezing sickness in his fingers if he didn’t cover them sufficiently. Taras wondered how long Nikolai had waited out here for them. Taking off his gloves, Taras passed them to Nikolai.

  “Put these on.”

  Nikolai obeyed with all the emotion of a boulder. Taras doubted he even realized his hands felt warmer.

  “The Tsar chose this place specially,” Nikolai said quietly, and Taras leaned out of his saddle to hear over the constant, hollow friction of the wind. “He wanted to set up camp by the ruins. He thought it fitting.”

  Taras’s mind searched Russian history, trying to understand. “Because he rules Russia, much as Rurik did?”

  Nikolai smiled bleakly, shaking his head. His eyes studied the ruins, as if he could see them aging. “The legend is that the ancient people of Novgorod came out to Rurik. They claimed their city was great and prosperous and beautiful, but had no law. They begged Rurik to come rule them.” Nikolai turned his head to look at Taras. “Ivan thought this place fitting in an ironic way. Here, where his ancestor brought order, he created anarchy.”

  Taras’s shiver had nothing to do with the wind. Ivan’s anarchy never proved the political type.

  Eventually Nikolai started toward the city. He simply moved forward with a sigh that held the weight of the universe. Taras followed in silence with the supply train in tow. Though they were only a mile and a half from the gates, the deep snow caused trouble for the horses and it took them nearly an hour to get there.

  As they neared the city, gilded domes and tall steeples Taras knew belonged to white-washed churches came into view. Novgorod was a beautiful city, and one of Russia’s most ancient. It stood for hundreds of years before anyone settled Moscow. Despite its antiquity, most still considered it one of the most resplendent cities in the Eastern world, or so its inhabitants claimed.

  Taras visited the city only once, with his parents. His father, who'd grown up in Novgorod, took Taras and his mother through the streets with all the pride and vigor of any man showing off his hometown. Because his father advised the Tsar, they'd lived in Moscow and their trip to Novgorod had been brief. Before it ended Taras found himself convinced the claim was true: Novgorod truly was the most beautiful city of the East. It’s domed architecture and gleaming white walls sparkled in the sunlight. As a teenaged boy, Taras thought it the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Moscow seemed drab by comparison.

  Now, nearing the walls, Taras saw that architecture clearly. From outside, everything looked calm, peaceful, and beautiful as ever. Taras didn't trust the outward appearance, though. Something felt wrong. Not something. Everything. Only not in a way he could see. Experience told him stillness should never be confused with tranquility. Stillness could be deceptive, and it never brought peace by itself.

  Not that it was truly still. The wind howled with a ferocity that made Taras uneasy. Feeling compelled to dispel the silence, he called out to Nikolai. “What does Ivan have against Novgorod? What are they being punished for? No one seems to know.”

  Nikolai remained silent so long, Taras didn’t think he meant to answer. When he spoke, his voice sounded hollow. “Novgorod has long been independent, full of free thinkers, such as your father.”

  Taras frowned. “They’re still under Ivan’s rule, though. How does he see them as free thinkers?”

  “Novgorod is governed by a council, for one thing. This council makes decisions together for the city.”

  “Like in Rome?”

  Nikolai shook his head. “It’s not a republic. The council is not representative of the citizens. They come together and make their decisions based on what’s best for the city, not necessarily what the Tsar wants.”

  Taras nodded, understanding. “They do not bow to the autocrat in all things.”

  Nikolai gave Taras a sidelong glance. “Ivan is not known for leniency in matters of his power. Novgorod is too free. He sees it as disloyalty—treason, even.”

  They’d nearly reached the gates, and the smell of decomposing flesh reached Taras’s nose. He wrinkled it, the knots in his gut twisting tighter. His heart raced. Never in his life, not even when on the front lines of battl
e, had he wanted to wheel his horse around and gallop for the hills more. The fear settled on his tongue like a bad taste, and the feel of darkness around the city felt so thick, it felt almost tangible, like they rode through sludge instead of wind.

  “Nikolai, what will I see in there?”

  “Something you will never forget.”

  They arrived at the heavy wooden gates of the city. Fifteen elbow-spans tall, and nearly as wide when standing open, it would take several men working together to move either door. They stood closed and barred. The heavy gates were not the ones the supply train needed to pass through. Beside them sat a smaller entrance. It still consisted of two doors, small enough for a single man to easily open. The space would be only wide enough for the sledges to pass through single file.

  As Nikolai dismounted to open the small doors, Taras’s eyes were drawn to the large gates on the left. It struck him as odd that he could see the outline of each door with perfect clarity, especially near the bottom. The snow had been cleared away, as though something melted it around the doors’ base. A dark substance—black in color—seeped through, outlining the doors perfectly. Taras thought it might be tar and wondered what purpose such a thing would serve—trying to seal the gates somehow perhaps?

  It wasn’t until he passed into the city that he understood the substance was blood. So much of it covered the ground, it literally seeped out of the city.

  When Taras passed through the wall of Novgorod a pace behind Nikolai, what he saw took his breath away. His breath, his heartbeat, his will to move forward. He thought the light of the sky might have dimmed. He couldn’t even gasp in horror.

  Bodies carpeted the earth inside the city wall. Not a single patch of ground could be seen. The sea of corpses stretched as far as Taras could see, piled almost high enough in places to be at eye level, and Taras still sat atop his horse. Every building, wagon, barrel, tree, and street overflowed with torsos, limbs, and staring eyes. He thought this must merely be the dumping ground, but every corner he turned, every alley he peered down, looked exactly the same. In the distance, the dead hung out windows and covered rooftops.