Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  Tara folded his arms, his khanjali displayed prominently on his hip. “Very well,” he said in Russian. “What brings men such as yourselves so far north?”

  The man’s eyebrows jumped toward his hairline. “You speak impeccable Russian, lad. Yet you do not look Russian. Most of the ignorant, wild folk of this country speak only tribal dialects.”

  Taras met the man’s eye. “I had a Russian father and lived for several years in Moscow. My mother was English. Now I live here.”

  The man looked him up and down speculatively. His two companions studied Taras with interest. The one on the right had a slender frame and a thick fur shapka pulled down over his ears. The lines on his face put him at middle age, like the leader. The third appeared younger than his two friends, closer to Taras’s age. A round belly protruded beneath a long face. He couldn’t entirely close his mouth over his large teeth.

  "I am Sidor Abramov. My companions are Vlas Kirov,” he motioned to the man with the shapka. “And Luka Kuzmin.” The younger man nodded at Taras.

  Abramov dismounted. “My companions and I should like to ask for guest right. May we stay the night in your humble abode? We have a long way to go and will be on our way with the morn, but would appreciate some respite tonight."

  Taras nodded. “Taras Demidov. Guest right is yours. I have food enough to feed you. As for rest, I must warn you there is a small baby in the house.” The next moment, it occurred to Taras that giving his true name had been foolish. Given the direction they’d come from, these men were most likely from Moscow, and might have heard of him. If so, they would know him as a deserter and a traitor.

  If any of them recognized the name, though, they didn’t show it.

  Abramov’s eyes widened at mention of the baby, and a smile split his face. “There must be a wife as well, I presume?”

  Taras studied the man, wondering at Abramov’s intentions with such a woman. He didn’t sense any threat in the man's question, though. Only genuine curiosity.

  Taras shook his head. “The babe arrived several months ago. His mother lays in a grave around back.”

  Abramov’s face fell, and genuine sadness stole across his features. “My deepest condolences, sir. We did not mean to intrude upon your grief.”

  Taras shook his head, waving his hands. “Please, my Lord. You do not understand. She was not my wife. She came from the village. One of these ignorant, wild folks you mentioned. I think a nearby village exiled her and she made her way to my cabin before giving birth. She did not last the night."

  As he spoke, an idea sparked in Taras's mind. He’d had the baby for months now, and as winter had come in full, assumed he would be forced to keep the child until spring. Only then would he be able to search for a more suitable living situation for the boy. "I am...not keen on caring for the child,“ he said. ”I have no experience raising children, and this is no place for a growing boy. I'm searching for some way to find him a more suitable situation. Tell me, sir, where are you and your companions headed?”

  Abramov frowned. “Poland.”

  Taras raised an eyebrow. “Surely this is not the shortest route to your destination.”

  The man peered at Taras with a discerning eye. “You are correct. It is, however, the only route on which the oprichniki will not follow.”

  Ah. Taras more than understood the sentiment. "So,” he said, “you will be heading toward more civilization. Perhaps a woman can be found to care for the child?”

  Abramov’s frown deepened further. “We have a long way to journey, Sir. I do not think a child will survive it. Do you require this as price for your hospitality?”

  Taras sighed, shaking his head. “My hospitality is yours either way. I may try to convince you to take the child off my hands, though. I cannot raise him myself. Come inside. I’ll prepare a meal.”

  The three men stabled their horses in Taras’s tiny barn with Jasper before warming their hands by the fire while he prepared a stew. The four men ate in companionable silence while the baby made gurgling noises from his bed. He’d grown steadily since his birth, and Taras had to admit he felt fond of the boy, but he still couldn't see actually raising him into adulthood.

  When the men all finished their food, Abramov spread his hands. “Might I make a suggestion for your quandary, sir?”

  Taras nodded. “Of course.”

  “Why not take the child to civilization yourself? I don't recommend Poland, as I don’t believe a child can survive the journey with you anymore than with us. It is only a few days’ ride to Moscow. Take the child to an orphanage there if nothing else."

  “I cannot return to Moscow," Taras said, more sharply than he meant to.

  Abramov studied him a moment before leaning back on the stool Taras had provided him and lacing his fingers over the broad girth of his belly. “Nor can we. So, I understand. Still, it may be the best choice if you want the child to live.”

  Taras considered, staring into the flames. "May I ask my Lord, why you travel to Poland?”

  Abramov remained silent, studying Taras speculatively for several moments before responding. Taras waited patiently. "Normally I would not be truthful with a man such as yourself. Either because I’d assume him too ignorant to understand or, if not, because I wouldn’t trust him with the truth. You seem to live out here of your own choice and refuse to return to Moscow. So, I think you must understand the madness of Ivan the Terrible.”

  Taras nodded grimly, meeting the man’s gaze. “I do.”

  The man nodded as though he expected as much. “This Tsar has exiled us, for no logical reason. He believed we plotted against him, though none of us did. Many of us have come to believe Ivan pays people to circulate gossip against those whose property he covets, so he has reason to exile them and absorb their estates. We were forced to leave Moscow or suffer the Tsar's wrath, which would have meant death. We sent our families ahead of us weeks ago. When things got worse, we packed our horses and came north."

  Taras nodded. He believed the man. Abramov possessed an air of earnestness, and Ivan had plotted similar things long before Taras left the city. He, of all people, understood the kinds of things Ivan orchestrated to further his own ambitions.

  “Not to worry,” Kirov said cheerfully from beneath his shapka. “Unlike most other unfortunates in our position, we've managed some revenge against the Tsar.”

  Taras's sat up straighter. "Oh? How so?"

  “The Army of Devlet-Guirey is headed toward Moscow. We ran into him on his way and gave him some valuable information.”

  Taras frowned, something twisting sinisterly in his stomach. “You gave information to an enemy, my Lord? That's treason.”

  Kirov shrugged off-handedly. "It is." He nodded. “As far as we’re concerned, the Tsar betrayed us a long time ago. Betrayed his country time and again, by killing his people and using his position as anointed Tsar to further his own greed. Any consequences of our actions, Ivan deserves.

  Taras huffed in frustration, anxiety for Inga filling his chest. Typical of a wealthy boyar to not think outside the realm of his own physical situation.

  “You seem angry with us, son,” Abramov said, his voice calm and curious. “Do you harbor loyalty for Ivan?”

  Tara shook his head. "Not at all, my lord. Yet it is not Ivan who suffers if the Tatars attack Muscovy. It is the people of Moscow. And the Tsar’s army, which might be slaughtered.”

  Abramov studied him speculatively. “You don’t put much stalk in the abilities of the Tsar’s army, do you, young man?”

  Taras sighed, realizing Abramov had a point. Ivan’s army, always stationed around Moscow, were well-trained. He hesitated, then nodded. “You are right, my lord. The Tsar’s army is vast. They won’t allow the Tatars in easily, if at all.” Despite his words, a nervous uneasiness made Taras feel restless. He did his best to convince himself of what he’d just said to Abramov. Still, even if the Muscovite army prevailed, there would be a great deal of death in the streets of the city.

/>   Kuzmin chuckled softy, putting a hand to his round belly. “That is where you err, my friend. Ivan already fled, I’m sure, like the coward he is. His generals are spaced out along the Oka River, away from the city. Devlet-Guirey knows this, and how unprotected Moscow is. As we speak, he rides to sack it.”

  Taras leapt to his feet in alarm, his mouth falling open. He worked to find the words he needed to ask his questions. “No generals guard Moscow’s walls?” He finally managed. “That means it will be completely vulnerable to the Tatar invasion. There will be nothing—no buffer whatsoever—between the people and the enemy.”

  Kuzmin sputtered for an answer. “We-we’ve already told you the Tsar fled. He will live. The Kremlin is always protected. The palace guards will shut the gates.”

  “Which means the city itself and the people in it will become the buffer between the enemy and the Kremlin,” Taras snapped. “One the Tatars will bash themselves against to regain a dominant foothold in the East.”

  The three men gaped at him. Taras dropped his face toward the ground in an effort to regain his composure. When he spoke again, his voice held much tighter control. “You’re sure Devlet-Guirey already forded the Oka? Where is Vorotynsky?”

  Kuzmin rose to his feet to face Taras. “Who on God’s green earth are you, man? No Siberian wild man knows names like Devlet-Guirey and Vorotynsky. You speak perfect Russian, yet obviously have foreign blood. Are you a spy? A specter? A member of the royal family? What?”

  Taras barked a bitter laugh, studying his hands. “Hardly.” He dropped his voice low. “The royals would have considered me a half-breed.”

  From his seat, Kirov spoke up. “Not a member of the royal family, I think. Perhaps a soldier.”

  A hush fell over the cabin and Taras glanced at Kirov before dropping his gaze. He refused to confirm or deny it.

  After a moment of silence passed, Abramov raised a hand to his companion. “Sit down, Luka.”

  Kuzmin obeyed and Abramov addressed Taras again. “You have nothing to fear from us, Soldier. We may not hold commissions in the Tsar’s army, yet we’ve deserted every bit as much as you have.”

  Kuzmin opened his mouth, protest written on his face. Abramov put up a hand. “We are all in the same boat,” he glared at his friend pointedly.

  Kuzmin shut his mouth and folded his arms, looking sullen.

  Abramov studied Taras once more. “A former soldier, and one who shares our situation even further, perhaps. A man wronged by this Tsar, who perhaps, still has people in Moscow he cares about.” His voice inflected upward at the end, making it a question.

  Taras didn’t answer. He told himself not to worry. Inga would be safe behind the gates of the Kremlin. Surely, the Tatar army would never infiltrate so far. Yet what if they did?

  And what about Nikolai? Taras didn’t know if he rode with one of the other generals, away from the city. Unless Nikolai remained in the palace, he might end up on the front lines of the defense against the invasion. Taras forced visions of Nikolai’s slaughter at the end of curved, Eastern swords from his mind.

  Pictures of the people of Moscow and the city replaced them. Taras pulled people from flames in that city, spent time with them. He might be half English, but the blood of Mother Russia still ran through his veins. The idea of Moscow being sacked by Easterners put fear in his belly and boiling water in his blood.

  Yet, what could he do? If he returned to Moscow, he’d be arrested. Or killed. Even if he galloped Jasper all night, he still wouldn’t arrive until after the attack.

  He also had the baby boy to think of. He couldn’t simply leave it here for days. He doubted it would survive an overnight sprint through the snow to Moscow either.

  Taras sat back down and the four men sat in silence. Taras’s thoughts howled, of course. Thousands of scenarios danced through his head. Should he return to Moscow briefly, to see the results of the battle? And if Inga still lived? If he went slowly and took the goat, the baby might survive. That slow a journey to Moscow would take him a week or more. Perhaps take the boy to an orphanage. What if no orphanages—or anything else—remained?

  Even if the city and people all lived, most people wouldn’t be willing to take on a newborn, especially when trying to rebuild their lives after an attack such as this. That assumed there were survivors.

  No. He mustn’t let his illogical worry take over. He ought to stay in Anechka. Put Moscow behind him, as he always intended. He never considered returning. Not once, since he left. Perhaps he should stick to it.

  Inga.

  What if she died in the attack? His stomach twisted painfully at the thought. It made him want to cover his head with his arms and hide from the sun. If she no longer lived, his reason for staying in Anechka disappeared. He hoped she’d come. He promised to wait for her. Yet, Taras considered himself a logical man. He wouldn’t wait on a hope now buried in the ashes of Moscow.

  His thoughts swirled and eddied with all the possibilities.

  As night fell, the three visitors bedded down on Taras’s floor in front of the fire. They carried enough plush furs to make relatively comfortable beds for themselves. Much more comfortable than he could have provided them. He fed the baby goat’s milk and he fell asleep. His three visitors soon snored.

  Taras couldn’t sleep. His thoughts cycled through a possible return to Moscow and trying to convince Abramov to take the boy with him when he left. If Taras gave them the goat, they’d have enough milk to keep the child alive until they found it a home. Of course, none of that ensured the baby’s survival. The cold and other elements needed to be considered. The arduous journey.

  At least the child’s fate would be out of Taras’s hands. A preferable outcome.

  In the end, he concluded that things hinged on what Abramov decided. If they took the child with them—and he intended to push hard for them to do so in the morning—he could go to Moscow and see what remained there.

  If they refused, Taras couldn’t see carrying the baby into the midst of a bloody battle. Which meant remaining in Anechka until he found a permanent situation for the child. Taras ran through arguments for the boyars to take the baby with them, going over possible objections and rebuttals. Somewhere in the midst of his swirling thoughts, he dozed off.

  Hours later, cold air swept across Taras’s face. Much colder than should have been present with the cabin door firmly shut, the windows covered, and the fire burning. It didn’t feel like the room slowly grew cold as the fire died down. Rather, like a sudden pillar of cold air cutting through the room’s heat.

  Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Taras wondered what caused it. Perhaps one of his visitors went out to relieve himself. Sitting up, he scanned the dim room. The fire had burnt down to embers, but his eyes adjusted to the dark enough to see three mounds, subtly rising and falling, in front of the fire. His visitors still slept. So where did the cold air come from?

  He detected movement in the periphery of his vision. Turning his head slowly, he peered into the darkness. Shadows cloaked the corners of the room. The corner where the baby slept looked especially dark, but then it sat furthest from the fire. All felt still and silent except for the sound of slow, steady breathing coming from the sleeping boyars.

  Deciding he’d imagined it, Taras turned over and punched his pillow, about to lie back down.

  Something in the darkness moved. Taras raised his eyes to the shadow above the baby’s box. Two shadow arms reached into the makeshift crib and scooped the baby out of it, clutching it tight against a shadow chest.

  One corner of the heavy skin covering the cabin’s front window lifted. Moonlight briefly illuminated baby and shadow-figure before the figure slid deftly through the tiny window.

  With a cry, Taras leapt out of bed. Slamming his feet into his boots, he grabbed his khanjali and flung the cabin’s door wide.

  Up ahead, clearly seen in the moonlight, the shadow figure darted away from his cabin and across the snow-covered valley floor. He vaulted after it, s
ure he could catch up. He was a fast runner, and the figure carried a baby, after all.

  A thought floated across the outskirts of Taras’s mind as he sprinted. He could let the shadowy figure have the child. His dilemma about what to do with the baby would be solved. Taras barely registered the thought. Anyone who sneaked into a cabin in the middle of the night to snatch a baby couldn’t be decent. A sinister feeling that the child was in grave danger spurred Taras on.

  After what felt like an eternity, the distance between Taras and the kidnapper began to close. He needed to catch them before they reached the edge of the bowl-shaped valley. Beyond it lay dense woods, and Taras would have a far more difficult time following.

  The steep slope at the side of the valley proved troublesome for the kidnapper. Scaling it slowed him considerably.

  Taras pumped his legs harder. The man climbed to a height higher than Taras’s head. With a flying leap, he grabbed two handfuls of the man’s coat and yanked him backward. The two of them fell into the snow, the man’s weight coming down fully on Taras’s torso and knocking the breath out of him.

  He vaguely registered a small bundle being dropped into the white powder. A tiny mewling sound came from it.

  The man—the figure struck Taras as entirely too large and heavy to be a woman—rolled to the right and Taras shoved him, trying to get out from under his weight. Taras then rolled onto his belly and got his feet under him, fighting for breath.

  The man flipped onto his belly and Taras got his first decent look at the man’s face. Nothing about him looked particularly familiar. Dark, disheveled hair and a long beard might have belonged to any Russian. The moon shone bright. It hung in the sky behind Taras’s opponent, leaving his face in shadow.