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 swung 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, the 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.
She thanked God for the clothing she wore, and especially for the thick boots. Katerina admitted to herself that she was tiring and in need of more food; her sack was almost empty. The boiled potatoes were gone, and all that was left was a small bit of cheese and a chunk of black bread that was so hard she feared she would crack her teeth on it. The food would be gone by nightfall, and then she would have nothing, with four days of travel still to go. She cursed long and loudly to the animal beneath her. “I can live on my hate for as long as it takes me to reach the Khan,” she muttered as she rode through the first pass. Moments later, she was confronted with the first steep ridge. She dismounted and walked the horse alongside her. Finding release from her tension by talking to the animal, she continued with her bitter tirade. “When I find him, and I will, I’ll carve his heart from his body and hang it on a spear to dry. But first,” she said viciously, “I’ll cut his tongue from his throat and cut off his feet. Then I’ll cut out his heart.” Bile rose in her throat as she remembered the feel of the knife in her hands when she plunged it into the center of Yuri’s heart. “There will be no pain in my heart when I retaliate for what was done to Yuri and my people. I’ll feel only sweet blessed revenge!”
As she and the horse carefully edged their way up the side of the slope, her thoughts continued. Who was it who attacked Yuri? If only I could rid myself of this anger. Was it Father’s men or renegade Cossacks? Poor Yuri, why did they have to be so cruel? When I first saw him he seemed so confident, so strong, but seeing him with Father made me realize there was a weakness about him. Was it because he was so young? Was it because he was unsure of himself in dealing with us Cossacks? Even when he made love to me, our union was strong and good together, but I felt something was missing. That elusive feeling must be what I’m yearning for. What is it? I said I would find it in the eyes of the man I want forever. It wasn’t in Yuri’s eyes. Perhaps that is what they call love? Is that what is missing when animal lust is not enough? The combination of lust and love together must drive one to the gates of heaven. Someday I’ll have this feeling; I’ll not settle for anything less.
Her thoughts were so intense, she failed to see a low branch hidden by the stygian darkness. She walked straight into it and fell, her feet going out from under her. Her head reeled as she tried to get up. Was it the fall, or was she weak from too little food? Whatever, she had to stop.
She tied the reins of the horse to a tree and lay down on the hard, rock-strewn ground. The pain of the stones beneath her was all she needed to remind her of where she was and where she was going.
Eventually she slept, the rocks digging into her soft flesh. When she awoke, she could barely move, the aching was so intense. She tried flexing her arms and massaging her thighs, trying to work out the shooting sensations that were so severe she had to gasp for breath. Through clenched teeth she muttered over and over, “I need this pain. If I’m to survive, then I must have this pain to make me remember.”
Twice more she slipped and fell as she made her way down the mountain grade. The jagged edges of the rock and the scrubby outgrowth of brush tore at her thin shirt, leaving it hanging in tatters on her back.
For the next three days and nights she walked her horse up and down the steep ridges. Whenever a pass opened up, she rode the animal like the wind to make up for the time-consuming climbs. They stopped only to get water from the many streams that trickled through the range from the many rivers up north. Straight ahead should be the Ural River, she reasoned as she rode through the opening of the last pass. “The Ural River means the end of the mountains; it’s all flat riding from here,” she told the horse as they rested. “We’ll pick a shallow spot in the river and be across in no time. After we skirt the town of Troitsk we should be on my uncle’s doorstep.” Reaching down, she patted the horse on the neck. “My faithful friend, you have brought me a long way; you have done your job well, and I’m grateful to you. When we get to my uncle’s camp I’ll make sure you are treated to plenty of feed and water.”
She pushed on, and soon the Ural River was in sight. She did as she promised the horse and found a suitable place to ford. Weary, almost leaning completely forward on the horse, she spurred him onward. As they passed the town of Troitsk she found herself too weak to go on. She stopped the horse and sat leaning forward on the animal’s mane. She looked and she listened.
Her eyes burned with lack of sleep and fatigue. Katerina dismounted and waited for the traveler who was approaching so he could make known his name. Barely able to stand erect, she found her vision blurring as the horseman reined in his mount and sat looking down at her in disbelief. She grasped the saddle to steady herself and tried to speak. She wet her parc
hed lips and opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. Her head reeled, and she blinked, trying to bring the solitary figure into focus “I need . . .” and then she remembered nothing more.
The man dismounted, his eyes never leaving the woman on the ground. It could be a trick. What was a woman doing here in this godforsaken place? Who was she and what did she want? Why was she traveling alone? He stood a moment, his hands on slim, muscular hips, his indigo eyes speculative as he continued to gaze at the fallen girl. Impatiently he brushed at a sheaf of rich ebony hair that fell over his forehead as he dropped to his knees for a closer inspection. He frowned at the parched lips and at the dirty sunburned face. Strong, square teeth played with a full lower lip as he narrowed his eyes at the array of yellowish-purple bruises that peppered her arms and back. His mouth was a grim, tight white line as he felt his hands go to the thick, luxurious copper hair. How soft it felt. His sun-bronzed hand traced a gentle line around her soft mouth, and she stirred slightly, moaning softly.
A small dark bird fluttered among the branches of the solitary tree as Banyen Amur sat back on his haunches to wait for her to awaken. He was patient; waiting was nothing new to him. He decided that there was nothing wrong with her, save overexertion. She would awaken soon.
When Katerina woke, she was fully aware of where she was and of the man sitting watching her. She watched him for a second through her heavily fringed lashes and felt her heart begin to pound in her chest. She watched him a moment longer as his finger trailed over a jagged scar on his cheek. The pounding in her chest lessened as she remembered how he had come by the scar. The thick lashes parted slightly as she took in his appearance. His loose blouson shirt was deep indigo, almost the color of his eyes, and he wore it tucked into form-fitting black breeches. Soft leather boots rode high on his legs, making the muscles bulge with the softness of the richly polished leather. From her position on the ground she could see the questions in his eyes, the puzzled look on his hard, high-cast face. She lowered her gaze to his long, slender, sun-darkened hands, hands that would be capable of gentling a horse or stroking a woman’s flesh. Hands that would . . . did . . . Don’t think about that, she cautioned herself. Her eyes still narrowed, she watched him flex his shoulders, the muscles rippling and dancing across his chest. Yuri had been a boy compared to this man. A man who had raped her and now didn’t know her.
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