“I come to learn.”
“To learn what?” the man asked.
“To fight,” Sergei responded.
The Cossack laughed and turned to smile back at a few other riders near enough to hear. “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he said.
“And found the right man,” said one of his companions.
He introduced himself as Leonid Anatolevich Chykalenko. As the men were in need of some light amusement, that very afternoon a match was arranged in the barn—a relatively private affair, with friendly bets among the spectators. Sergei lost the first match and won the second, surprising Leonid and the spectators and earning their respect. The third was called a draw. Sergei found Leonid swift and skilled and clever in his tactics. But his own intense physical preparation and training had paid off. This match—the first with a real adversary since his overwhelming defeat against Zakolyev’s men—boosted his confidence. He had expected to fare worse.
Sergei offered his compliments, telling the Cossack quite honestly that he was one of the most formidable men he had fought and that he had learned much of value during their match.
They parted with friendly farewells and a personal reminder that there were good people in the world—and for a fleeting moment, he felt a pull to stay for a time, here in this quiet village, and live as one of them. But the moment quickly passed, for his path led elsewhere and allowed no such delays.
Sergei met with a similar experience in the next Cossack settlement, and the one after. Each victory revealed the strength, speed, and skill he had acquired over those months, fighting with shadows. But Sergei finally realized that to defeat Zakolyev and his Cossacks, he would have to find something more. Friendly matches with a single opponent was one thing; battles to the death with multiple opponents were quite another. Sergei needed another mentor like Alexei, who rose not only above other men but above other Cossacks as well.
He recalled a conversation with Leonid Chykalenko and a few other men after their evening meal. As they gazed into the crackling fire on the hearth, Leonid had said, “I’ve heard rumors about a swordsman who lives alone in the forest, southeast of the Don—somewhere near a small settlement—a few huts, nothing more—hidden in the hills around Kotelnikovo. I was told that this man traveled widely as a youth…trained with the samurai of Japan…and gained audience with their last great ataman, the Shogun, where he disarmed one of their samurai before the warrior could even draw his blade.”
“His name?” Sergei asked.
“No one knows for certain. But I’ve heard he calls himself Razin.”
.24.
ON A WINDY MARCH DAY in 1893, Korolev returned from hunting with a deer carcass slung over his back. As he entered the temporary camp, he saw one of the new men, Stachev, a heavy drinker, stumble unevenly toward his hut, then fall facedown.
Oddly, the way Stachev fell reminded Korolev of that day when the Ataman had found the man he had sought—Ivanov and his woman—and had thrown him facedown, then let him live. A foolish thing to do, but no matter now—they had traveled far south again to the warmer plains between Kharkov and the river Dniepr. Besides, Ivanov was no more than a pissant to Korolev, certainly not worth remembering.
Yet the one-armed giant did remember, because of the change in Stakkos since that day. Not only had the Ataman taken a new name—Dmitri Zakolyev—but having settled that score, his mood had improved. Except for an incident that had occurred a few days later, Korolev recalled…
After every raid, as a cautionary measure, Zakolyev sent Tomorov the scout back along their trail to check for any signs of pursuit. And after the incident with Ivanov, Tomorov had returned to report: “I saw only a family traveling by wagon…and a lone man, stumbling along on foot.”
When Tomorov saw Zakolyev’s expression, the scout quickly added, “He couldn’t have been the same man, Ataman—his hair was white and he looked old and sickly…”
Zakolyev sent Tomorov to find the man, kill him, and bring back the body.
When Tomorov returned empty-handed, Zakolyev announced that the band would move immediately.
A month later they found a camp far to the south and west, not far from Romania’s Carpathian Mountains. From there, they patrolled the border like regular Cossacks. They also resumed their methodical raids, once every few months. Everything had returned to normal—including Zakolyev’s nightmares.
Korolev knew of the Ataman’s troubled sleep; he made it his business to know everything. The few men who courted his favor, and the women who were terrified of him, were quick to report anything of interest they had learned. But they could not inform him of the contents of Zakolyev’s mind. Korolev would have cut off his braid to know what disturbed the Ataman’s sleep. Yes, that would be worth something. He studied the Ataman as one might study an animal in its natural habitat. But Zakolyev remained an enigma, and Korolev did not like puzzles. He either solved them or smashed them to bits.
At first it seemed that Zakolyev had no weaknesses. He lived like a Spartan, no longer interested in the women. He drank rare l y. In fact, the Ataman seemed a model of virtue, except for his penchant for killing the Jews. And that was just his nature, Korolev surmised: Scorpions sting; Zakolyev kills Jews.
Korolev found only one flaw in Zakolyev’s armor, and that was the Ataman’s strange attachment to children. Zakolyev actually liked the little beasts, especially the young suckling whelps who didn’t know any better, who would smile and coo at the devil himself. Only when the children grew past infancy, and the Ataman saw the fear in their eyes, did he lose interest in them except as servants or new blood to carry on his dynasty.
Among those born or adopted into the tribe, the Ataman seemed especially taken with two of the new children—a boy, Konstantin, and a girl he had named Paulina. Just after her arrival—when her cry was heard in the night—Zakolyev had claimed the child as his own. He proclaimed that the woman Elena was the child’s mother but that Shura would care for his daughter, since the older woman was better suited to maternal duties.
Once, after the infant girl had grasped the Ataman’s finger, he remarked with paternal pride, “A strong baby, is she not?” Shura agreed, as she always did. Whatever the Ataman said became truth.
In her forties, Shura was the oldest woman and first female to join the band. Disfigured by scars on her cheek, neck, and one breast as a result of childhood burns, she was befriended by Great Yergovich, the only other elder in the tribe. He did not approve of the younger men inflicting their lusts on the poor woman, but things were as they were. Fortunately for her, she was one of the few women that Korolev ignored.
Shura had a foul mouth and would complain loudly to anyone who would listen. Mostly she talked to herself. Careful not to complain in front of the Ataman, she grumbled about little things like the weather or the knots in the girls’ hair as she pulled out their tangles. The girls would run the other way when they saw Shura with her wooden comb.
Widowed years before when her man was killed in a drunken brawl, Shura had followed her son, Tomorov, when he had taken up with Zakolyev. The Ataman permitted her no motherly indulgence. “If the children in your care become a problem,” he told her, “they will be left behind.” She understood what this meant. She also understood that when the girls were old enough to attract any of the men, they would be used as the men pleased.
All but the child Paulina.
The Ataman’s other favored child, Konstantin, knew his place and played the admiring pup. It was a natural role for this curious boy with large dark eyes and a tousle of hair to match. Sometimes Zakolyev smiled when he looked upon the boy; at other times the Ataman seemed melancholy—about what, Korolev could not guess.
For his part, Korolev could barely tolerate the Ataman’s displays of sentiment—patting his favorites on the head and insisting that they call him “Father Dmitri.” It was disgusting. Still, Korolev was glad he had found this one flaw, because once you know what a man cares about, you know where t
o stick the knife.
Korolev also disliked Zakolyev’s passion for stealing the belongings of the dead Jews. Killing was one thing, but acting like a common thief was another. And the way the Ataman pored over these mementos back in camp made no sense. Taking money, gold, and jewelry one might understand—but coveting soiled goods, journals, and photographs of those they had killed? Trinkets and memorabilia? Korolev was not a superstitious fool, but any man could see that one should not bring such things back to camp.
Although the Ataman had grown more eccentric as time passed, he maintained his authority—and the raids remained the same: The scouts continued to ride at least two days’ distance—north, south, east, or west, never the same direction twice. They would note the locations of isolated huts, cabins, or small farms, observing from a distance until they could determine who lived there and whether they were Jews. Sometimes one scout would leave his horse with the others and walk to the door asking directions. If they saw women, all the better.
Eventually two other women, Oxana and Tatyana, had joined the band—bored girls plucked not unwillingly from their native villages. Now four of the nine children in the tribe had been born to Elena, Oxana, or Tatyana, but no one kept track anymore.
Despite their normal appearances, the men and women of Zakolyev’s camp were outsiders and outlaws. Friendly enough to their own kind, they had abandoned any veneer of civilization when seeking prey. Murdering on orders of the Ataman—some with reluctance, others with pleasure—they had given their souls to Dmitri Zakolyev and become extensions of his mind, servants of his will.
.25.
SERGEI RODE SOUTH along the river, then east, where he found several more Cossack camps. He considered seeking more contests but thought better of it. To defeat Cossacks he had to reach beyond them. That meant finding the swordsman Razin. Leonid Chykalenko’s mention of this man seemed more than chance. Now committed to this goal, his search became a single-minded passion.
Looking for a few small huts hidden in the shade of a forest was no simple task, however. Sergei asked many locals, but their directions were vague and conflicting. After three months he began to doubt the man’s existence. He had, after all, heard legends about many great warriors, but most were folktales. Still, his search continued.
A few weeks later Sergei’s pulse quickened when he came upon a likely group of huts in the forest. Finding an old woman peering out of a makeshift door, he asked if she had heard of a skilled swordsman living nearby. She stared at him for a time, as if trying to discern his intentions—then she pointed toward a thatched roof in the distance, barely visible among the trees. Her door closed before he could thank her.
Sergei rode to the hut, dismounted, and knocked lightly on the door. No answer. He tapped again. Suddenly he felt the sting of a saber point between his shoulder blades.
Sergei considered spinning and taking the saber as he had been trained but thought better of it. If this swordsman had wanted to kill him, he already would have done so. A husky voice behind him said, “Your business?”
“I wish to learn from the sword master Razin,” he said. The point of the saber pierced deeper into his skin.
“Who sent you?”
“A…a Cossack…he had heard of your skills…”
“I don’t teach. Go away!” Lowering his blade, the man stepped past Sergei and closed the door to his hut.
Sergei knocked again.
“Go away!” he repeated in a guttural voice—a menacing growl that made Sergei shiver. Yet he persisted.
“If I could explain—I believe that I am meant to learn from you—”
The door cracked open. “Do not disturb me again!” said the gruff voice. Sergei caught only another glimpse of sharp cheekbones, fierce eyes, sun-darkened skin, and shaved head—before the door slammed again.
Sergei had found his sword master—the one teacher who might make the difference between success and failure. He had searched too many months to turn around now. He remembered something Alexei had said—or was it his uncle Vladimir? “The warrior must commit fully to any action.”
Infused with a sense of destiny, Sergei decided to sit in place until Razin accepted him as a student, or until he died.
Dikar had not volunteered for hardship duty, so Sergei led the stallion twenty meters off into the forest near a stream and hobbled him under the cover of pine trees. It was cold, but not frigid; short of a late blizzard, Dikar’s winter coat would keep him warm enough. He had eaten a generous helping of hay at a farm the day before and could graze at the river’s edge.
Sergei returned and sat cross-legged, his back against a tree, in front of this reclusive master’s hut. An hour passed…two hours…four hours. His body grew cold and stiff, then numb. He could no longer feel his hands or arms or legs. A fit of shivering came and went, and then he grew drowsy. Sometime in the night he fell over and painfully forced himself back to a sitting position. The motion brought back a little circulation, biting painfully at every nerve.
He grew hungry, but the hunger passed. The new day, clear and cold, brought a stream of memories—some welcome, others not: Anya and Sergei walking, laughing, through the sun-lit streets of St. Petersburg…then the horror came, and he saw Zakolyev’s dead smile, and Korolev, tearing her clothes—
Sergei sat up straight, his resolve turned to iron.
As the sun crept overhead, providing scant warmth, it occurred to him that Razin didn’t even know he was here. The reclusive master might have gone away. Even as these concerns arose, he heard the door open, then barely audible footsteps recede into the forest and, later, return. No, Razin could not fail to notice Sergei’s vigil but was apparently ignoring him.
By nightfall of the second day, Sergei wasn’t sure he could move if he’d wanted to. His tongue snaked out from between cracked lips in search of water, even if from the random snowflake. By dawn, time ceased to have meaning. Light and darkness. Another night, then a third day. During moments of clarity, between random dream images, Sergei wondered whether he had lost his mind. Where did determination end and obsession begin?
The day passed by. Darkness came again. He drifted in and out of awareness. Then he saw a trace of light, but remembered nothing more.
A VOICE CALLED HIM BACK into the world. “All right,” it said, from a faraway place. Suddenly louder: “I don’t want your corpse stinking up my place. Get up!”
Sergei tried to move but couldn’t. He felt strong arms lift him, but he couldn’t stand. So Razin left him sitting and returned with a pail of water. He poured most of it over Sergei’s head—like heaven raining down—and it woke his arms and legs. Sergei couldn’t tell if the water was hot or cold. Then Razin gave him a sip of water. “Not too much!” he said curtly.
After a time Sergei could move a little more. He rubbed his feet with increasing vigor. Finally, he rolled over and struggled to stand, dizzy and weak. Razin brought him into the hut and gave him a dried apricot. “Chew it slowly!” he said, handing Sergei warm tea and a cube of sugar through which to sip the liquid in the Russian manner.
“Sit there!” he said, directing Sergei to the large fireplace. Over the fire hung a large iron cooking pot. Inside was a steaming soup of grains and winter vegetables, with a little meat. “Stir the soup well, then fill both our bowls!” he instructed, and left Sergei alone for a time.
He did as Razin had asked.
When Razin returned, he told Sergei that he was to eat by the fire; Razin would eat at his small table. Then he gave Sergei more water to drink.
When Sergei had finished, Razin told him to wash both their bowls, adding, “I may consent to teach you. We will see…”
Razin pointed to the cooking pot over the hearth. “Most important—for my soup every night.” He showed Sergei his stores of barley, oats, and kasha—buckwheat groats—and a small garden of winter vegetables he was to tend. He pointed to the pit toilet outside. “Keep it clean!” So Sergei was to cook Razin’s food, sweep the floors, wash his cl
othes, and clean his latrine.
Gesturing back toward the old woman’s hut and the small barn nearby, Razin said, “Keep your horse there. Go now and take care of it. Then return and begin your chores.”
Sergei rose and left the hut. He attended to Dikar, feeding him a portion of oats and barley, then took him to the small barn, where he removed the saddle and blanket. Then he returned to the hut.
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS Sergei did his best to please this sinewy old warrior, without success. Razin always seemed irritated, barking one order after another. Without comment or complaint, Sergei made soup, stirring the vegetables and groats with a large wooden spoon, covering it to simmer with the heavy iron lid. Razin only grunted when he tasted it. After he ate, he indicated with another grunt that Sergei could also take some.
Between chores, Sergei went foraging in the forest, gathering eggs and catching a few rabbits. He also managed to walk Dikar, explore his immediate surroundings, and do some limbering exercises.
As the week turned to two, then three, Sergei went beyond what Razin demanded and made simple improvements and repairs—fixing the door and a loose window that rattled in the wind. But after all of Sergei’s sweeping, cleaning, washing, folding, and cooking, Razin said nothing about teaching him.
Four more weeks had passed; it was the middle of May. He could wait no longer. That evening, as he served the food, Sergei said, “Master Razin, I hope—”
“Not Master Razin,” the sword master interrupted. “Just Razin.”
He nodded, then continued: “I’ve done my best with my duties…I hope you have found them satisfactory.”
Razin answered with a grunt.
“I need to know whether I have earned the right to train with you.” Razin glared at Sergei in a way that made the hairs stand up on his neck. He started to turn away, but the question remained unanswered, so Sergei added, “I am on a mission; I can’t delay much longer. It’s a matter of life and death.”