by K L Conger
The Tsar raised his voice again to personally lay out the list of accusations against the Prince. “Attempting to deliver Novgorod up to Sultan Sigismund Augustus. Writing to the Sultan and urging him to seize Astrakhan and Kazan, and inviting the Khan of Crimea to lay waste to Russia.”
The Prince, a man with a thin face, pointed chin and bald head, raised his eyes toward heaven. "Everything I have just heard is a tissue of atrocious calamities. It is useless for me to try to vindicate myself. For my earthly judge is deaf to the sound of truth! He who reigns in the heavens sees my innocence!"
Inga’s heart stopped for a moment. Everyone’s did. The Prince couldn’t have saved himself no matter what he said or did, but claiming to be more pious than Ivan never ended well.
With feral growls, Ivan's oprichniki lunged forward. While the crowd gasped, they gagged the Prince, tied a rope around his ankles and pulled until he hung upside down by his feet. Inga’s stomach tied itself into knots and chills oozed down her spine when they began cutting his flesh into strips.
Viskovaty grunted through gritted teeth. Though the crowd clearly heard his noises of pain, he never screamed or cried for mercy. Inga respected him for that. Eventually, even the noises died away. Inga wondered if he’d passed out.
She didn’t observe the exact moment when he expired. Once the cutting began, she studied the back of Nikolai's shoulder. To anyone looking, it would seem she looked toward the dais, because her face pointed that way. In truth, she kept her eyes studiously on Nikolai’s kaftan.
The oprichniki poured boiling water and ice water by turns over Treasurer Funikov’s head. His skin eventually peeled off like an eel's.
Other prisoners were hanged, disemboweled, hacked to pieces and thrown to the dogs, had their throats cut, and dozens of other things Inga simply stopped registering. At one point, without dismounting, Ivan ran an elderly man through with the sharp lower point of his scepter.
Inga willed her apathy to consume her. It did, for the most part. She barely registered the gasps of the crowd, or the pools of tears forming in her own eyes. Yet, the tears did come. She blinked them away each time they formed, knowing that, if seen, they could mean her death.
When the sun moved enough for the day to have turned to late afternoon, all the prisoners lay dead on the cobblestones of a square that could now truly be called Red.
Ivan and his oprichniki looked weary. Blood spattered their fine clothes, though the garments still remained in better repair than the clothing of the prisoners they’d just executed.
The oprichniki thrust their instruments of torture into the air and shouted a word Inga didn’t recognize. “Hoida! Hoida!”
She didn’t really care what it meant, but apparently Yehvah felt curious enough to ask.
“What does it mean, Nikolai?” Yehvah leaned toward Nikolai again.
“I’m...not certain of the exact meaning. I’ve heard it used by the Tatars to urge their horses forward.”
Ivan rode back and forth across the square for half an hour once the executions were complete, examining the corpses with curiosity.
At one point, he stopped to point down at something across the square from where Inga stood. She couldn’t tell what it was. Bodies carpeted the cobblestones over there, so most likely it was merely the body of one of the prisoners.
Maniacal laughter wafted across the square, followed by Ivan’s words. “Look at the way he fell, my son. Like a drunk marionette.” The Tsarevich’s baby-like laughter joined his father’s.
Inga shivered while the crowd around her shifted uncomfortably. She heard sobbing behind her and turned to see the young maid, Ekaterina, crying softly. Inga willed her wall of numbness to shield her. It did, for the most part. Yet she felt the tiniest crack begin to get through the cold. Once she acknowledged the weakness in her defenses, she couldn’t shore it up, no matter how hard she tried.
She stepped back toward Ekaterina and wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Be strong, Dear One,” she whispered, for herself as much as the girl.
When Ivan stood only the length of three horses in front of Inga, Nikolai, and Yehvah, he sat tall in his shiny saddle again. "We will now go to the home of Funikov's widow and demand she reveal where her husband has hidden his treasure." He dug his jeweled boots into the stallion’s flanks and the horse burst forward, across the square. Several Muscovites dove out of the way to avoid being trampled. The oprichniki followed Ivan out of Red Square.
"Something tells me Funikov's widow is about to follow him to the grave," Yehvah said softly.
"Yes," Nikolai answered softly. "She is."
With Ivan and the oprichniki gone, Red Square remained full of only spectators and corpses. Soldiers from the army, like Nikolai, still lined the perimeter. They didn't seem interested in following Ivan to his exploits. The soldiers were the first to turn and slink away from the square. Following their cue, the citizens melted away as well. Slowly at first, then more quickly.
Yehvah herded Inga and the other maids back to the palace. It took much longer than normal, as the square stood full of now-rotting corpses, and the streets were filled with departing spectators.
Once there, Yehvah instantly snapped at everyone to get back to their work. She didn’t give Inga specific instructions, so Inga waited patiently in the corridor. She turned slightly away so Yehvah had some semblance of privacy with Nikolai.
“What will happen now?” Yehvah asked him.
"I fear this is only the beginning. Ivan will rest a few days, but he will find new victims. The dogs will fight over the corpses and the heat will putrefy them. The word is, Ivan will next punish the wives of the prisoners killed today."
"Punish them? How?" Yehvah asked. Her voice held foreboding.
"He plans to drown them in the Moskva."
Yehvah gasped. "Truly? No one is safe,” she breathed.
"No one is safe," Nikolai agreed. “I hear the plans before they’re carried out. I will make certain you are protected. Tell your girls not to draw attention to themselves. I will find you later tonight when I know more."
Yehvah's footsteps brushed up behind Inga before she grabbed Inga’s elbow and towed her down the corridor.
"We must get back to work."
Inga nodded. Taras had been right about one thing. They were all born in a ring of blood. The waters of Russia’s rivers would be soiled again. And once more, the fear Inga felt consumed her. Crippled her. Kept her from wanting to do anything except curl into a ball and hide.
Russia had become hell. Hell had become normal. And the devil himself sat on the throne.
Chapter 4
October 1551, Siberia
Taras had turned back toward his homestead in Anechka when he came across the wolf tracks in the mud. They looked fresh, and he wondered how far ahead of him the animal was. He didn't know why he should care to track it. An enormous elk already lay across Jasper’s saddle. The horse moved slowly under the load. Enough food to last him a month with the other roots and berries he routinely scavenged. Already he had a great deal stored for winter, though he’d probably need more. The snows came earlier here than they did in Moscow, and he knew he didn’t have much time before they came in earnest.
Taras ate wolf meat in Moscow and didn’t particularly like it. It always turned out tough and needed a great deal of spice—something he lacked here in Siberia—to make it palatable. Yet, in the dead of winter, wolf might be the only meat available to him. Perhaps he ought to gain some experience both in hunting and in preparing the dish.
Leading Jasper by the reins, Taras followed the tracks slowly. Two miles later, the woods opened into a natural clearing. In it stood a dozen rough, wooden huts. Far less sturdy than the cabin Taras built for himself, the flimsy structures shifted when the wind blew. A whistling sound reached Taras’s ears as well, when the wind blew through gaps and knot holes in the structures, which meant the little homesteads weren’t particularly well-insulated.
Around them
loitered a small multitude of villagers. Taras guessed four or five dozen. They sat outside their huts, engaged in various tasks, or stood in small clusters, talking. Some looked to be skinning small animals. Others cooked meat over small fires. Still others worked with simple, hand-held items, tended to looms or mended clothing. Through it all, they conversed with one another. Some sat in large groups, laughing and talking. Others sat on their own, focused on their individual tasks.
Taras noticed one young woman sitting off to one side by herself. She didn’t converse with anyone, though her hands worked at some small project in her lap Taras couldn’t make out. Blond, tangled hair fell nearly to her waist. She looked pale, her eyes gaunt. He wondered if she battled some illness and wondered why the other villagers didn’t include her in their camaraderie. She couldn’t have claimed more than fourteen or fifteen winters.
This must be the village Ganbold spoke of more than a year ago. Even after Ganbold told him of it, Taras had never bothered to look for it. Running over a map of the area’s geography in his head, Taras realized that by following the wolf tracks, he’d stumbled in the general area Ganbold indicated.
He vaguely wondered if the wolf had bypassed the village. The number of people and their cook fires might well have steered the animal away. Taras didn’t see any indication of a freshly hunted kill, so he doubted the villagers had killed the wolf.
The villagers hadn’t noticed him yet, hovering at the edge of the clearing. He knew he should introduce himself. He ought to meet his neighbors, even if they lived miles from him and he wouldn't see them for months at a time.
The idea of conversing with primitive, uneducated villagers didn't particularly appeal to him. The chances of them being able to understand each other were small. He imagined they spoke a broken sort of Russian, but their dialect might make communication difficult.
He moved to turn back around and lead Jasper back into the woods.
A cry went up from the village. He turned slowly, realizing he’d been spotted. The villagers pointed at him and spoke in whispers. Taras sighed. Just as well, perhaps. Introducing himself would be the proper thing to do, after all.
He walked out into the clearing. The instant Jasper emerged fully from the woods, the villagers stiffened. Many took a step back from Taras. He saw fear in their eyes. He couldn't be sure exactly what they feared. That he was a stranger? That he'd taken down an elk? He’d killed the animal by stealth and strategy, not strength, but its size probably made them believe Taras a dangerous warrior. He approached slowly, leading the horse by the reins.
The villagers ranged from children to men around his own age, claiming thirty to forty winters. He didn't see anyone older. He also didn't see any babies. In the harsh conditions of the Siberian winter, he imagined it was difficult for babies to survive. The ones who did would develop monumental strength and battle the land to survive for the rest of their lives.
The youngest person Taras saw was a boy of perhaps five, sitting beside one of the fires and watching Taras with wide, brown eyes. The boy’s filthy hair reached the middle of his back, and his eyes looked sunken.
The elements out here were harsh enough that most of the natives didn't live to old age either. The life expectancy in Moscow was unheard of in this part of the world. To them, Taras might as well have been an old man.
He approached them, raising his hands, palms outward. "Dosvidanya," he said in Russian.
The villagers blinked warily at him. He wondered if they understood. None made any move to come toward him or speak.
"I'm Taras Demidov. I’ve built a cabin in,” he motioned back the way he’d come, “that direction."
Still no response from the villagers.
Wondering if it would be best to simply turn and go, Taras took a step back toward Jasper. Perhaps, as with all things, a relationship with the villagers would take time. Perhaps they needed to see him more than once, and decide he meant no harm, before they could trust him enough to speak with him. He turned back toward home.
"We be hungry."
Taras turned in surprise. The words came from a young man who couldn’t have claimed more than fifteen winters. He looked as healthy or healthier than any of the villagers, though still scarecrow-thin.
"What?" he asked. As he’d suspected, the boy’s dialect made him difficult to understand, but Taras felt sure he'd interpreted the words correctly. He simply didn’t know what the correct response would be.
The boy glanced at the villagers around him before taking a step toward Taras. The young man’s stance held courage, yet uncertainty filled his face. "We be hungry. My little brother," he motioned toward the boy with the long, filthy hair, “has not...food for two days. Might we...share your meal?"
A sense of guilt washed over Taras. Of course they were starving. He wondered if these people even knew how to hunt. They must have some way of scavenging food from the land, but perhaps they weren’t hunters.
It took him hours to fell the enormous elk this morning, and it would have fed him for a month. He could come out tomorrow or the next day and do it again.
Turning to his horse, he reached over Jasper and grasped the elk’s hind hooves. He pulled them over Jasper’s saddle and held them there with one hand. With his other, he grabbed the beast by the antlers and tugged until it slid off the horse, landing heavily in the dirt. Jasper whinnied and danced sideways in protest. He calmed a moment later.
Taras indicated the elk on the ground at his feet. "It is yours. See that your village and your brother eat well for a few days.”
The young man's mouth dropped open. Whatever response he’d expected from Taras, this was not it. He gazed down at the elk, utterly shocked. A moment later, he fell onto his knees.
"Thank you, my God." He bowed his head. The other villagers did the same.
Even if not for the motion, Taras felt certain the young man had addressed him as a god, rather than simply “my lord.” His translation might be wrong, but the boy used the word bog, which typically meant god rather than lord. Now they all bowed to him. A mere social convention in Moscow, Taras thought it meant something else entirely out here.
He shrugged uncomfortably. People in Moscow looked at Ivan the way these villagers looked at him. He found the thought repulsive. He would not walk in Ivan’s shoes.
Stepping forward, Taras touched the boy's shoulder. The young man’s head snapped up in alarm.
"Please," Taras said. “I am only a man. Accept this elk as my gift. Perhaps we can be friends."
The boy stared at Taras as though he didn't understand. Perhaps he truly didn't.
Not knowing what else to do, Taras turned back to Jasper. Putting his foot in the stirrup, he swung onto Jasper's back. Probably best to leave the villagers alone, at least for a few days.
Strange. Taras had felt so reluctant to come here, even after Ganbold urged him to. He understood the logic of getting to know the local villagers, yet something kept him solitary these past months. Now that he’d arrived, he felt glad to know them. The idea of helping to feed them felt purposeful. Fulfilling in some way.
Looking down at the boy, he raised a hand. "I will return in a week or so to see how you are. Until then, eat well."
A sudden shriek went up from one of the villagers by the fire. It split the air so suddenly that Taras jumped, startling Jasper. Taras calmed the horse, looking for the source. It came from the five-year-old boy by the fire. He pointed a finger toward Taras.
Taras wondered what on earth frightened the child. Other villagers screamed in terror and pointed toward Taras too. It took him another five seconds to realize they didn’t point at him, but rather at something beyond him.
Taras firmly turned a skittish Jasper around to face the woods. At first, he saw only the woods themselves. Brown trunks and dead, yellow and brown foliage common at this time of year as the ground froze and winter moved in.
A tiny movement caught his attention, and the shape of the wolf materialized for Taras’s ey
es out of the foliage. The subtle movement of a paw had given the animal away.
Its brown fur helped it blend seamlessly into its surroundings. At half Jasper’s size, the wolf stood simply enormous. Once Taras discerned its body, he also took note of its large, predatory yellow eyes.
Oh no. This must have been the wolf he’d tracked. And it looked hungry.
He felt movement behind him as the villagers dove for their structures. The instant they began to run, the wolf lunged.
Taras leapt off Jasper, drawing his saber with one hand and a hunting knife with the other, as the wolf vaulted forward. He shoved Jasper’s neck to get him going in the opposite direction, knowing the wolf could target Jasper as easily as the humans.
The wolf rushed directly toward Taras. He had no idea if it focused in on the elk, the villagers, Jasper, or Taras himself. They all lay in the wolf’s line of sight and Taras wasn’t taking chances.
In a moment of insanity, Taras jumped into the wolf’s path. Or at least, he tried. The wolf lunged past him and Taras landed spread-eagled across the wolf’s back. He wrapped his arms and legs around a body larger than his. The wolf staggered, turning his head to the side. Razor-sharp teeth, sprouting from powerful jaws, snapped at Taras's hands.
Taras managed to raise the knife a few inches and plunged it into the wolf's abdomen. The positioning of his hands made him doubt he'd hit its heart. The animal snarled and rolled, trying to buck Taras from its back.
Clinging to it for dear life, Taras yanked on his knife and withdrew it easily from the wolf’s body. He blindly stabbed again, making sure to keep the hand with the knife away from the wolf’s mouth. If it bit his arm, he’d drop the knife and promptly lose the fight.
The wolf threw itself onto its back and rolled over on top of Taras. Something in Taras's hip snapped and he cried out. He didn’t think he’d broken anything, but he’d pay for this with pain later.
The animal used Taras’s painful hesitation to snatch his left hand—the one without the knife—into its jaws. Dozens of tiny knives sunk into his forearm and pain lanced through his arm all the way to his shoulder.