The Golden Horde (13 page)

Then he screamed briefly at the horrific fanged thing with phosphor-yellow eyes, a thing which had been a man but was a man no longer, just before it lunged forward to tear the grin from his face and the face from his skull. The Grey Wolf spat foul-tasting meat onto the floor of the shop, wiped a dribble of blood from his chin, and leaned against the doorpost to watch his victim die.

He ached; his whole body ached. What had happened hadn’t been a shape-change, not quite; it had been some sort of rage-driven warping that allowed both sides of his nature to flow together. It had never happened before, but then he had never been so angry before. All the wolfish ruthlessness and the studied human cynicism had vanished in one hot red flare like the bursting of a Chinese fire-pot, and suddenly there was a wolf’s muzzle and a wolf’s fangs on what was still mostly a human face.

That had hurt.

His limbs had tried to twist themselves into the animal configuration without changing from human shape, and the nails of fingers and toes had become claws bursting through the leather of gloves and boots. That had hurt too. Biting off the Mongol’s face had hurt most of all, for those wolf-teeth had been powered by the muscles of a human jaw poorly equipped for such savage work.

Volk Volkovich rubbed at his own face with both hands, trying to massage the ache from its outraged muscles.
So
what
if
it
hurt
? he thought.
Not
enough
has
ever
really
hurt
me
,
not
so
that
I
cared
about
anyone
else
. The Mongol bubbled briefly, kicked, squirmed and died at last. The Grey Wolf stared down at the corpse, his face impassive.
And
that
felt
much
more
right
than
using
a
sword
would
have
done
.

He wrapped his cloak more closely about his shoulders and strode from the wine-shop, taking the first steps on the long road back to Khorlov.

CHAPTER FOUR

The
Independent
Tsardom
of
Khorlov
;

January
,
1241
A
.
D
.

MARKER Tsar Ivan Aleksandrovich looked at the ciphered scroll which half an hour before had arrived in Khorlov strapped to a homing-pigeon’s leg, then reached out to poke at it gingerly with the newly-cut nib of a quill pen. His expression was that of a man confronted by a venomous insect, rather than a scrap of parchment.

“More bad news?” Mar’ya Morevna had seen that expression, or variants of it, too many times in the past few years. Ivan dropped the pen and watched it spin slowly on the tabletop, a compass-needle with nothing left to point at.

“The worst,” he said quietly. “Kiev has fallen.”

“That’s impossible!” Dmitriy Vasil’yevich Strel’tsin made his pronouncement sound like the voice of God, and looked as though he was defying anyone to take issue with such certainty.

The young Tsar looked at his First Minister and shook his head. “If denial could shape reality I might believe you,” he said. “But nothing in five years has stopped the Golden Horde, and I doubt your claims can start now. They took Kiev last month, and kept on going as if the place was of no importance.”

“Kept on going?” Strel’tsin looked at his Tsar in disbelief. “Where to, for God’s sake? Will they
never
stop?”

Mar’ya Morevna pushed her chair back from the table and stood up, needing to make some movement however pointless rather than sit still listening to nonsense any more. For all his venerable years and accumulated wisdom, Strel’tsin could always be relied upon for stupid comments. “They’ll stop whenever they please, my dear First Minister,” she snapped. “And as for where they might be going now, let me inform you that there’s more to the wide white world than Mother Russia. I suspect the Tatars want all of it, or as much as they can take – and right now, whether you like the concept or not, they’ve got all the lands of the Rus.”

“They don’t have Khorlov,” Strel’tsin persisted.

Ivan groaned audibly. “Dmitriy Vasil’yevich,” he said, “that may just be because Khorlov isn’t big enough to warrant their attention. Not when they’ve set their gaze on the whole of Europe. And let me be honest with you: I’m grateful. Tatar attention is something very few people have survived.”

Ryazan had been first, and though Ivan wasn’t susceptible to nightmares brought on by even the most lurid second-hand descriptions – hardly surprising, given what personal adventures had befallen him – the Grey Wolf’s report of siege and sack had given the young Tsar bad dreams and restless nights for almost a week afterwards.

Vladimir had gone the same way as Ryazan – the execution of the emissaries who came demanding surrender, followed by a brief siege of four days and then the obliteration of the city and everybody in it who was of no use as a slave. Rostov had followed, then Suzdal, Yaroslavl, Chernigov, all strong places with high walls and fortified kremlin palaces. And now Kiev… The list seemed endless, and didn’t even begin to include small towns and villages stamped out of existence without even the dignity of a formal assault.

Khorlov had as yet seen nothing of the invaders; and if one believed the bookmen and chroniclers, there was no such thing as an invasion in any case. The vital word
conquest
was never used in their written records. A reader unaware of the truth of the situation, or unadvised by an eye-witness such as the Grey Wolf, might believe that nothing worse had happened to all those cities than the armed robbery of a successful raid. Of course, that same reader might well have wondered at the continual success of the raiders, or the equally continual failure of the Rus Princes to do anything about their depredations – but such questions were discouraged, dismissed, and often downright ignored.

What the chroniclers’ refusal to answer or accept couldn’t conceal was the arrogant presence of Tatar couriers. These solitary men, on fast horses and lightly armed, were riding to and fro across the face of Moist-Mother-Earth as if they owned it. Which was of course untrue.

Wasn’t it…?

Those who had thought so were mostly dead now, their cities in ruins, their people either slaves or corpses, and their treasure in the possession of the most successful robbers that the world had ever seen.

“If the Tatars come to Khorlov, Majesty, what will
you
do?” asked Strel’tsin. The old man seemed slightly chastened, though Ivan knew from past experience of the chief councillor’s moods that it was no more than a temporary change in manner. Tsar Ivan glanced at Mar’ya Morevna, who nodded in silent approval, then poured himself a fresh cup of wine and sipped it in slow deliberation. He hoped that Strel’tsin hadn’t heard the cup clink against his teeth as he drank, for now the question had been asked, Ivan’s intended response was making his hands shake.

“
When
the Tatars come to Khorlov, I’ll submit.”

Dmitriy Vasil’yevich stared at his Tsar, then emitted a strangled sound of disbelief that could never have been described as a word. He controlled himself with an effort, though from the look on his face he would have preferred to tear his beard in a formal display of indignation. Ivan suspected it would have little formality left in it. “Majesty, you dare not—” Ivan’s eyebrows went up and Strel’tsin stuttered to a halt. “I, er, that is, the Council would never permit it.”

“The Council has already been summoned to attend me,” said Ivan. “Not that I intend to give them any choice in the matter.”

Strel’tsin took a deep breath. It did little to help his colour, which had gone pale except for two feverish spots of red below his eyes. “Tsar Aleksandr wouldn’t have done this,” he said finally, knowing that Ivan couldn’t deny such a statement without insult to his own father. Ivan didn’t give him even that much satisfaction.

“I know it,” he said. “And so did he. That was why he abdicated in my favour. So that when the time came, Khorlov would have a Tsar who could make such a decision.”

“He knew?”

“My father has the Sight, Dmitriy Vasil’yevich. You know that as well as I do, though conveniently you appear to have forgotten the fact.”

“I remember well enough—”

“So much for convenience.”

“—But he would never have used it to justify the action of a coward!”

“Old man,” said Mar’ya Morevna, “guard your tongue. You may be First Minister of this realm, its High Steward, Court Sorcerer, Castellan of Khorlov and sundry other things. But all those hats are worn by just one head, and heads can be removed.”

Shocked, Strel’tsin stared at Mar’ya Morevna, then turned to Ivan in the hope that he might take his wife to task for overstepping her authority outside her own domains. “Majesty, surely…”

“Surely not,” said Ivan coldly. “You presume too much on your age and long service, Dmitriy Vasil’yevich. Be more careful. I wouldn’t be faced with this decision if men so quick to voice opinions had been as quick to hear them.”

“After Ryazan was destroyed,” said Mar’ya Morevna, “we sent warnings to all the Princes of the Rus who rode with Khorlov against the Teutonic Knights.”

Ivan nodded gloomily. “My father said they might have better memories of that battle, and of me, than of other past dealings with this Tsardom. Except that they wouldn’t listen! They – or their First Ministers – were too busy looking for the catch, the trick, the advantage for Khorlov and the loss to themselves. We could have made Russia a single mouthful big enough to make the Tatars choke on it, and instead we let them chew us up one bite at a time! So don’t use the word ‘coward’ to me. I may not be able to restore Kiev and the rest, but if I’ve got enough courage to put my self-esteem aside, I can prevent my own city from suffering the same fate.”

He stood up abruptly, drained his wine-cup to the dregs, and slammed it back against the table’s surface hard enough for the little pigeon-borne scroll to leap off it. “The Council will be waiting,” he said, and bent to lift the parchment from the floor and tuck it into the pocket of his belt. “Your choice is a simple one, Dmitriy Vasil’yevich; support me, or oppose me. The time for standing to one side is past and gone.”

“Failing to support the Tsar’s decision is treason,” said Strel’tsin. He spoke quickly, to forestall Mar’ya Morevna from saying the same thing, and bowed slightly in her direction. For all the hard words exchanged over the table, he was smiling, a small, dry curving of the lips but a smile nevertheless. “And I have never yet failed to support the decisions of any Tsar of Khorlov” – Ivan opened his mouth to protest such an outrageous lie – “when those decisions were wise, and worthy of support.”

Ivan shut his mouth again. He couldn’t dispute the truth.

*

Tsar Ivan stared at his High Council, turning that scrap of parchment over and over between his fingers, and waited for a pause in the babble of conversation. Then realized after a few minutes that if he was going to wait for that, he would wait a very long time. Instead he gestured to Guard-Captain Akimov.

“
The
Tsar
!
Silence
for
the
Tsar
!” roared the Cossack in the same voice Ivan had once heard carry clearly half-way across an engaged battle-front. It slapped through the Council Chamber and produced a sudden quiet not so much because that had been requested as because none of the councillors were capable of competing with that extraordinary bellow.

“Better,” said Ivan, and straightened his fur-trimmed crown to give his trembling hands something to do. “Lords and gentlemen, I called this meeting for reasons of safety and security.” If there had been discreet speculation beforehand, the Tsar’s use of such ominous words sent a ripple of dismay through every councillor, young or old.

“The Tatars,” he continued, “have passed though Russia like a storm sent by God as retribution for our sins – whatever those may be, to warrant such a severe punishment from so loving and merciful a deity.”

There was a flurry of moving hands as the entire Council crossed themselves, though Ivan wasn’t sure whether it was a reaction to his opinion of the Tatar invaders, or his faintly blasphemous view of God.
Perhaps
Archbishop
Levon
Popovich
was
right
, he thought grimly,
perhaps
working
with
the
Art
Magic
does
have
an
effect
on
your
faith
.
Or
perhaps
encounters
with
good
Christian
people
like
the
Teutonic
Knights
and
their
pets
from
the
Holy
Order
of
the
Inquisition
has
more
effect
than
that
. He gave them another chance to recover their composure before he went on; and took that opportunity to sit down himself, where the slight tremor of his fingers was less apparent.