by K L Conger
Taras reached the valley feeling empty. It made a man feel like the only person on earth. Taras spent several days there. At the end of his stay, he knew one thing for certain: if he ever went to live there, it would not be alone. He would bring someone with him—a wife, a family, someone—otherwise the solitude would drive him mad.
Two days out of the valley, he came across a group of traveling men. Claiming to be descendants of the ancient Russian Cossacks, they traveled toward Moscow to trade their wares. They consisted of a variety of people, including Tatars, whose slanted eyes and small statures were strange to Taras. He’d heard about them while living in Russia, but had never met any. They were civil and curious when he told them he'd come from England and crossed the world on horseback. He caught several of them throwing him suspicious looks when they thought he wasn’t looking. They did not seem to mean him any harm, so he ignored them, choosing to be grateful for the company.
He'd traveled with them for a fortnight.
Today, clouds blocked the sun. Taras found it strange for the sun to set without having shown its face all day. Technically spring had arrived, which was why the caravans headed for Moscow. This far north, however, snow still covered the ground as far as the eye could see.
“The horses will not calm,” one of his companions observed.
The man who spoke called himself Almas. Almas had been friendly to Taras, or at least he’d spoken to Taras more than the others.
“Any idea why?” Taras asked, grateful for the conversation.
“No. Animals have keener senses than men. What they sense, we may soon experience.”
Almas’ Russian was broken, and Taras had to concentrate to understand him. They traveled on through the snow, under the rapidly darkening sky.
Soon they would stop and make camp. Large fires kept them warm at night and kept the wild animals away. Even so, every morning, outside the ring of light cast by the flames, animal tracks circled around their camp. It gave Taras the chills. The others said the animals were demons, trying to get at the men’s souls. One man always sat up at night, keeping watch.
Taras did not believe such things, but deep in the night, when he wakened to the sound of feet crunching snow in the darkness, his disbelief in their superstitions did nothing to calm him.
Furthermore, they were tracks he couldn’t identify. The land this far south didn’t seem right for tigers, but the paw prints were massive—almost the size of a man’s head.
When Taras first joined the caravan, the men had been amazed at his courage to travel alone. Taras did not understand. Siberia did not seem frightening to him, no more than any other part of the world. Now, after traveling through the frozen wilderness for weeks, he could understand their awe. He'd probably been in grave danger the entire time and not realized it.
“Why haven’t we stopped for the night yet?” Taras asked. “Even the twilight is fading.”
Almas glanced at him before answering. “The horses’ unease is a bad omen. The men want to leave this valley before we stop. They say it is full of evil spirits.”
“It’s too dark to see. The horses could break a leg.”
“Not much farther. Over that ridge we’ll make camp.”
There were thirty men in the caravan. As each had a horse and sleigh of goods and possessions, they were spread out over a quarter mile as they marched. Taras squinted in the twilight. The ridge looked a good way off—twenty- or thirty-minute ride at least—but unless he wanted to camp alone, he had no choice except to stay with the group. He dismounted and took Jasper’s bridle, leading him through the unnatural quiet.
Screams shattered the stillness from somewhere behind Taras. He started and lost his footing, falling onto his hands and knees in the snow.
The noise also startled Jasper. The stallion reared up on his hind legs and Taras barely made it out from under the stomping hooves as they came down. Stumbling to his feet, he grabbed Jasper’s bridle, trying to calm him. It was no use. The screams from the darkness continued, getting worse, even. It sounded like a man being tortured.
“Almas, what’s going on?”
Almas didn’t answer. He was getting his own horse under control. When he managed it, Taras thrust Jasper’s reins into Almas’s hands.
“Hold him for me.” Without waiting for a reply, he plunged back toward the screams, drawing his sword. The man still screamed. Whatever was happening, it must be terrible.
As he waded through knee-deep snow, the screams receded. They weren’t lessening, only moving away from him. They faded, then stopped altogether. Taras reached a circle of five panting men. One of them held a horse with a black substance strewn across the saddle. The same substance colored the snow. Blood, Taras realized.
“What happened?”
The men exchanged glances. Taras turned to the man holding the horse.
“Are you all right? Why is there blood on your horse?”
The man shook his head. “Not my horse. Ilgiz’s.”
The man holding the horse had the reins of a second horse in his other hand as well. The horse with the bloody saddle did not belong to him.
“Where’s Ilgiz?”
All five men pointed ominously in the same direction. Taras followed it. The caravan traveled in an open stretch of the valley to avoid trees, smaller shrubs, and roots that could trip up the horses or catch the rails of the sleighs. Not ten feet from them, a dense stand of trees stretched back, becoming miles of forest.
Now that he looked, Taras could see deep grooves in the snow leading from Ilgiz’s horse into the trees. It still didn’t explain what happened. Taras did not believe a monster had come out of the forest and dragged a man, screaming, from his horse.
Taras stalked toward the man holding Ilgiz’s horse and grabbed him by the throat. “Tell me straight: where is Ilgiz? What’s happening?”
Mosts of these men, who claimed descent from the short-statured Mongols, only came up to reached Taras's chest. He was a giant to them, but the man holding the horse showed no fear when Taras grabbed him. He leaned forward to give his answer. His nose almost touched Taras’s. He whispered one word.
“Wolves.”
Taras released the man with a slight shove. He examined the scene again—blood in the snow, on the saddle, the drag marks. Was it possible? Taras had never seen wolves act like that before.
“Are you telling me a wolf came out of the forest, wrestled a man from his saddle, and dragged him off?”
“You obviously know little of Siberian wolves.” This voice came from behind him. Taras turned to see Almas approaching, leading his horse in one hand and Jasper in the other. “There is nothing to eat in the dead of winter. Even wolves can find no food. They are desperate and will attack anything. This is why the horses are nervous: they can sense the wolves prowling nearby. We must leave this valley. They will attack again.”
Taras remembered hearing stories of Siberian wolves as a boy. Supposedly as large as horses, they were known to drag whole groups of people away if they were hungry enough.
As though Almas’s words were a call to arms, the men in the circle remounted their horses to set out again. The moon came out from behind frozen clouds, as though to lead them, and cast a ghostly light over the valley.
Their little gathering was alone; the rest of the caravan had not bothered to stop. They’d continued over the ridge in the distance and were probably making camp already.
“Wait,” Taras sputtered, trying to countenance what had happened not twenty feet from him. “We must . . . help him.”
“Who?”
“Ilgiz.”
The dark hid their faces, but Taras could feel their surprise.
“Help him?” The unseen man sounded shocked.
“There is nothing we can do for him now,” Almas said. “He is dead.”
“We cannot leave a man to the wolves.” It sounded like such an odd thing to say when it wasn’t meant metaphorically.
“We can do nothing for h
im,” Almas repeated. “If you try to follow, the rest of the pack will be waiting, and then you will be part of their meal as well.”
“We’re talking about a man’s life—“
Somewhere far off, a series of snarls were followed by renewed screams. They only lasted a moment. Then there was silence. Even the night creatures made no sound.
A chill ran down Taras’s spine. He didn't think he’d ever be warm again.
“There, you see,” Almas’s voice was quiet. “It is over. We must go.”
All the men mounted, taking advantage of the moon’s light, and spurred their horses toward the ridge. Almas offered Jasper’s reins to Taras. When he didn’t take them, Almas let them drop to the ground. He mounted his horse and left Taras standing in the blood-stained snow.
Taras ought to follow. Staying by himself wasn't smart, but he felt rooted to the place. He imagined a man—whom he’d never set eyes on—being picked clean by wild animals.
Taras picked up Jasper’s reins. The horse seemed calmer than before. Perhaps now that the pack had gotten their meal, they’d moved farther away. Taras put his hands on either side of the horse’s head and rested his forehead against Jasper’s. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm the sickness in his belly.
Russia was turning out to be a more barbaric place than he remembered.
THE NEXT MORNING, THE men cleaned up the sparse camp in a moody silence. The cold made sleep difficult. After a few hours, the wet of the snow soaked through the thickest skins, making anything but shivering impossible.
No one got much sleep. They doubled the watch. The howling and snarling of wolves continued all night. An unspoken relief came with the dawn and everyone rose and prepared to leave more quickly than usual.
Taras felt a pull to go back to the site where Ilgiz had been attacked. He resisted it. There was nothing he could do about it now. As the group headed out, he cast one last look toward the scene before urging Jasper forward. He never wanted to think about that night again.
THE GROUP WAS STILL a week’s ride from Moscow. The day was wet, as opposed to frozen. Wet days were worse. The snow hid sinkholes, and once a man’s clothing got wet, warmth was impossible to find again.
As midday approached, the group stopped to eat. The riders on horseback spread out around the sleighs and lunched atop their horses. Taras scanned the horizon while they ate cold cheese and stale wafers. The landscape was utterly silent—not even a wind today. Every so often, a horse would snort or wicker, and the noise echoed so loudly in the silence that Taras jumped.
“Riders approaching!” somebody shouted, shattering the oppressive stillness.
The call came from ahead of Taras, on the other side of the caravan. The men spurred their horses into action, lining up between the caravan and the approaching horses. Taras fell in beside them. The land here was flatter than farther north. The riders could be seen from a long distance, and it took them some time to approach.
As they neared the group, Taras could make out a rich sleigh lined with velvet and furs, carrying a man dressed in a thick fur coat and shapka. There were bells on the harnesses and rich, sleek horses pulling it. Taras remembered seeing grand prince Vasily driving around in a similar sleigh. To have transportation such as this, the man must be an important boyar, close to the grand prince, or one of the prince’s own family.
An armed escort of men surrounded the sleigh on horseback. Even the bodyguards’ garments were richly made. Two of Taras’s group went out to speak to them when they were close enough, and two men from the sleigh’s escort met them halfway. After a few minutes, the four men nodded. The two men from Taras’s group returned. They spoke in what Taras thought might be Turkish. The group seemed to accept whatever was said. They fell back into line and the rich sleigh fell in behind them.
Taras urged his horse up to Almas’s. “I didn’t understand that.”
Almas smiled faintly. “My apologies, my friend. I should have thought to translate it for you.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s the Khan of Kasimov.”
Taras tried to remember what he’d been told of Kasimov. He’d read about wars with the Tatars, but hadn't thought about it in years. His confusion must have shown because Almas explained, “Kasimov is a Khanate of the Tatars. Battles have been fought over it for hundreds of years. The remnant of the Golden Horde used to control the grand princes of Muscovy. When the Mongols conquered the eastern lands, the grand princes paid tribute to the Khan. That was hundreds of years ago. Still, raiders from Khazan, Crimea, and Astrakhan invaded Russia. Then the grand prince created Kasimov and filled it with Tatars loyal to Russia. This is a great boon to Russia, as it opened the eastern markets for trade. It also keeps the eastern Tatars from attacking, as they would be fighting their own people. So you see, it functions as both a physical and a . . . a mind weapon as well. Forgive me, my friend. My Russian is not good on this subject.”
“I think I understand.” Taras knew the Tatars—a mixed people of Turks, Mongols, and several other ethnic groups—had conquered Moscow in ancient times. The grand princes paid annual tribute to the king of the Mongols, or what Almas called the “remnant of the Golden Horde.” Eventually Moscow won its independence, but there were still invasions of Russia from the east.
Kasimov—the land this man in the sleigh ruled—was a khanate of the Tatars. Taras thought a khanate must be similar to a colony. However, the tsar had many loyal people in Kasimov, which meant he could control the border to a large extent. It functioned as a buffer, as well as a gateway to eastern trade.
“Your people are very divided,” Taras spoke quietly, not wanting Almas to take offense. Almas merely nodded.
“We are. Some believe we ought to be united with Russia. Others think those who are in Kasimov are traitors.”
“They are well off, it seems.”
Almas shook his head. “The grand prince keeps them living in decadence because he cannot afford to lose their loyalty. They always arrive like that—in great splendor.”
Taras nodded, considering. He’d never been interested in the intrigues of court, but as he was heading into the hornet’s nest, he supposed he ought to make note of certain things. If he wanted to learn the truth of his mother’s death, he might have to engage in some maneuverings of his own.
“How close are we to Moscow?”
Almas immediately cheered up. “Not far at all. Two, three days at most. Are you . . . pleased to be going there?”
Taras thought Almas probably meant something more like ‘excited’ but didn’t correct him. “In a way, but I’m also anxious. I haven’t been to Russia in more than fifteen years. My last visit, I buried my mother. I find I am nervous to enter the Kremlin Wall again.”
“Even the most courageous of men are, my friend. Take heart. You are young, and if you gain the tsar’s favor, you have a great deal to look forward to.”
Taras gave Almas an encouraging smile. It faded quickly. No matter how hard he tried to be excited for his new life, he found only anxiety. That same old sensation—the feather running down his spine—was ever present.
THE GROUP RODE ALL day in eerie silence. There were no animals, nor wind to break it. The men seemed fearful to disturb the unnatural quiet.
As the sun set, Taras found himself looking forward to sleeping in a real bed again, out of the snow. He wondered how he would be received. Margaret thought he would be treated as a boyar. Taras wasn't convinced. Truly, he didn't care, though. A soldier’s barracks would suit him fine.
Taras was lost in his thoughts when a snarl came up ahead of him. A gray blur shot out of the trees on his right. With a white flash of teeth, the wolf grabbed the arm of one of the men. The man screamed and, even from far back, Taras could hear the crunch of bone. The wolf was huge—at least half the weight of a large horse. It pulled the man off his horse, knocking the horse off its hooves. Horse, rider, and predator all crashed to the snow-covered ground. Then the man was dragged into th
e undergrowth, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
Taras unsheathed his sword, ready to the follow the man into the woods. The man might lose his arm, but that didn’t mean he had to lose his life. Another wolf—black, this time—sprang from the foliage on the left, attacking a second man and dragging him off, screaming, into the still wilderness.
By now the group had gotten their bearings. Men dismounted, unsheathed weapons, and formed a circle around the sledges. The horses were as valuable as the sleighs, and men could not fight four-footed predators from horseback. Taras dismounted as well, pushing on Jasper’s neck until he backed into the circle with the others. The silence felt thick as the men stood, waiting for further attacks. In the distance, the screams of the two doomed men echoed softly.
Taras winced, knowing he would dream about this.
He saw movement—something white and feathery moving through the trees. He decided it must be the wind blowing the powdery snow around. Then he realized there had been no wind all day. The moving snow jumped out at him.
He didn’t see the third wolf until it was almost too late. Stark white, this one blended perfectly with the reflective powder. Its leap would have missed him by several feet, had he stepped aside. Instead, he sprang into action.
Stepping directly into the path of the oncoming attack, he held his sword straight out like a spear, cleanly impaling the wolf as it came down, paws clawing and teeth snapping. Even after the sword burrowed through its ribcage, the wolf growled and tore at him.
The snapping teeth slowed, then stopped. The body went limp on his sword. Only then did Taras allow it to drop to the ground.
The body slid off his sword, leaving a sheen of wet, shiny blood on the blade. Taras gazed down at the creature with fascination.
A winter coat of the cleanest white Taras had ever seen covered its lithe, well-muscled body. Black socks adorned three of its legs and a gray diamond decorated its forehead, as a horse might. Taras couldn’t help thinking it ironic that he'd slain the most beautiful animal he’d ever laid eyes on. Lying still in the snow, it would have been utterly invisible, if not for the pool of blood slowly spreading around it.