# The Wolf Master/Chapter 2

pp. 10–13.
WHEN Ivan the Terrible, Tsar of Muscovy, Lord of Novgorod, and of Sibir, died some twenty years , before, he left in the world two sons—an elder, Feodor and a lusty youngster Dmitri. He left, too, a councilor, Boris Godunov, wise beyond his generation and ambitious.
Feodor was saint-like and weak. Boris reigned as regent in Moscow until the ailing Feodor passed to his grave. And a courtier of Boris' was believed to have slain the boy Dmitri. At all events, Dmitri vanished, and in the next years it was seen that a curse was on the land. Famine stalked from the tundras of the north to the deserts of the south. Men said this was retribution for the deed that opened Boris' path to the throne. Dmitri, the last prince of the line of Rurik, had been slain.
And when the usurper Boris died—as he soon did—men said that the murder of Dmitri had been a curse upon him.
There was now no one to sit in the eagle throne of the Kremyl at Moscow. The boyare would not tolerate the son of Godunov. The time of trouble began.
Then Dmitri reappeared, a living man, at the gates of Moscow.
Out of the Monastery of the White Lake he came—where he had been sequestered since he was a child. He had broken his vows as a monk and had wandered off to join the brotherhood of the Zaporoghian Cossacks. A bold rider, a wild spirit at revelry, and a youth of wit and daring, he had won his place in the hearts of the Cossacks.
From their camp he had gone to Poland, to the powerful King Sigismund, who had ambitions of his own. Dmitri's name had remained a secret until then—until, gravely stricken by sickness, he had confessed his origin to a Jesuit priest, saying that a slave child had been slain by mistake for himself. He had shown a jeweled cross given him by his parents, explaining that servants had hidden him in the monastery during the life of Boris Godunov.
Whether or not the king of the Poles believed his story, Sigismund saw at once that Dmitri would be a weapon in his hand. Dmitri was honored, and at the news of the death of Boris, was sent into Muscovy with an army of Polish nobles. He summoned his old companions, the Zaporoghian Cossacks, and they rallied to him. Battles were fought, but the boyare of Moscow were as ready to receive the young Dmitri as to fight against him. The gates were opened to him.
Over a land famine-ridden, among a stricken people, Dmitri rode laughing to his throne. The widow of Ivan was sent for, and embraced him, acknowledging him for her son. It seemed as if the time of trouble were past and done with.
Dmitri plunged into the task of ruling as if it had been a new pastime. He was Tsar—autocrat of many million souls. Instead of riding in the imperial cortège, he galloped through the streets on his Kabarda horses; he drank deep of nights, sitting with the foreign officers. Sham battles between the stolid Muscovite regiments and the German mercenaries were his pleasure. Where the holy images should have stood in his bedchamber, he hung a grinning mask. Always he laughed.
His wife, a Polish princess, arrived in Moscow attended by other regiments of King Sigismund. With these and the Germans Dmitri surrounded himself. He placed taxes on the monasteries to pay his soldiery.
And when it became clear to the Cossacks that Dmitri was ready to give their land to the Poles and King Sigismund, they left Moscow. At once the Tsar sent his armies after them.
“FOUR battles in the snow—three charges of armored hussars repulsed—a retreat of four hundred miles, and still the Cossack array is not broken. Powder gone, to the last grains—horses bleeding at the veins from lack of forage—the brothers have not yielded.”
So said the priest Andriev, while his black eyes sparkled and the white flakes gleamed like jewels in his long beard. Khlit lifted his head suddenly. Scattered musket shots sounded in the north, and the dog Karai got up to move to the gate.
“For a batko,” said Khlit grimly, “you know much—of kings and thrones.”
The beard of the stout little priest twitched as he grinned and his red cheeks broadened.
“I? Nay, I am no more than the little father of the Cossacks. Yet, ataman, when sin rises before the eyes like a gray fiend—I see! All these matters were told me by one who did not lie. Ohai!” Andriev shook his head savagely. “He did not lie.”
“Who was he?”
“A Jesuit—the same black robe who took the confession of Dmitri in Poland—an enemy of all orthodox believers. A servant of the red hats in Rome who would make slaves of the free brothers. Harken, Khlit—before the first battle near Moscow we made prisoners of some Poles who were on their way to Warsaw. Among them was this black robe. The brothers would have burned him, because his accursed people burned Netchai our father in a brazen bull. But he ran to me and prayed for his life, saying that he could reveal to us a secret that would aid the Cossacks. First he told me all this that I have said. And then—”
Andriev glanced to right and left and drew closer to the old Cossack.
“This Dmitri,” he said, “is not the son of Ivan the Terrible.”
“Not the Tsar!” Khlit peered into the round red face of the little batko.
“Ohai—he has been crowned as Tsar. In the church of Michael the Archangel, he was blessed and given the three crowns, and the princes of Muscovy kissed his hand. I saw it. But he is an impostor—a youth of wit and daring, who broke his vows of the monastery and said that he was Dmitri, the son of Ivan Grodznoi.”
The little priest crossed himself and sighed.
“His real name is Gregory Otrèpiev.”
“Otrèpiev,” Khlit repeated thoughtfully. For ten years his wanderings had led him from the Siech. and all these events were strange to him. But in Cathay and Ind he had seen men staking lives and treasure for a throne.
“The empress-mother acknowledged him—”
“She is old—she was persuaded,” Andriev responded sadly. “The Jesuit admitted it—when his throat was pricked with steel.”
“Is he dead?”
“Nay, I had pledged him life. Yet when our father Netchai heard the truth he went to the Tsar's majesty and cried out, 'False Dmitri!' Then swords were drawn, and Netchai was taken and given to the Poles to play with. They kindled fire and roasted him. And Otrèpiev began to hunt the Cossacks down—”
“Who else knows the truth?”
“King Sigismund, almost of a surety. Some of the Muscovite princes suspect, but while they eat from gold dishes at Otrèpiev's table they are well enough content—”
“Enough!” Khlit closed his eyes for a moment, striding up and down before the stout, hooded priest. In his mind's eye the old Cossack beheld stark treachery. He saw traitors in the palaces of the Kremyl; a Polish woman empress—the splendid armies of Poland encroaching on the fertile Cossack steppes, eager for land and slaves.
In truth Otrèpiev, the false Tsar, was troubled by neither hesitation nor remorse. He had turned, as a snake strikes, upon the Cossacks, who had joined him as allies at his plea. Now, as a bone is thrown to a dog to quiet it, he would throw the Cossack lands to the Poles—as the reward of their aid.
Deep in his throat the ataman growled, and Andriev looked up.
“Ay, father,” the priest said, “it is a black hour. Did not the impostor Otrèpiev cast down the ikons from the stand and put in their stead a grinning mask? God's anger is like a storm upon the Muscovites.”
“Yet the Archfiend fives,” put in Kirdy, speaking for the first time—and Khlit turned upon him, to stare grimly at his grandson.
“What was Loboda's plan?” he asked of the priest.
“To draw back, like a wolf, into the steppes, to muster new forces—”
“Against the Poles, the Lithuanians and the Muscovites!” Khlit threw back his head and laughed impatiently. “Nay, we are bait, to be cast from one to the other! We are so many heads of men and cattle to be roped and sold! To draw back is to invite a thrust. We must strike,” he added slowly, “at least one blow.”
“With what?” Andriev stretched out his strong hands helplessly.
Khlit stalked to the gate and summoned a Cossack to ride back to the detachment, and order all patrols to draw in on the kosh.
WHEN the veteran ataman returned to the fire he stopped beside Kirdy.
“It is time,” he said. “We must take the road. You have no horse. You will not need one, lad.”
To this Kirdy made no response, but the priest uttered an exclamation of surprize.
“An hour ago,” Khlit went on quietly, “I made a pledge to Colonel Loboda—that the traitor should die by a Cossack sword. Then, I did not know his name. An oath is an oath. Otrèpiev joined the brotherhood of the free Cossacks. Then he betrayed his brothers and gave to the fire Netchai, the ataman. Death to him!”
Kirdy bent his head in understanding. Andriev cried out in protest.
“Nay, father—do not send a Cossack, your grandson, to die. No man could win through the guards of the Tsar, to stab him.”
“Otrèpiev is not a Tsar, but a traitor. Nay, Kirdy is a match for any man with a sword, and a sword will deal with the false Dmitri—” Khlit touched the hilt of the curved saber at the young warrior's side, the same that he had worn in other days—“My sword and my honor—go with you, lad. This is the blow we must strike.”
“But how—”
“How looks he—this Otrèpiev, batko?”
Andriev swallowed his misgiving and searched his memory.
“Shorter by half a head than this White Falcon, but stalwart. No older, surely. His face is shaven smooth, and his skin is brown. Like a restive horse, he always moves his hands or limbs.”
“Aye, so. But he bears some mark upon him?”
“A mark? Well, there is a wart or mole under the right eye, near the nose.”
Even while speaking Khlit had been feeling under his girdle, and now he handed a small leather sack to Kirdy.
“Jewels—take them to the Jews. Change your garments, hide your sword. You, who have come hither from the Gobi, can appear as a Mongol lord among the Muscovites. You only, among the brothers, can do this. Do not come to me until Otrèpiev is dead.”
He had taken the rein of the waiting charger, and now he swung into the saddle as the Cossack who had gone for the patrols trotted through the tavern gate.
“Is the detachment back in ranks?”
“Aye, father.”
“Then take this batko up behind.”
Although grief tugged at the heart of the old ataman, he walked his horse in silence to the street, Kirdy striding beside him. Then, pretending to adjust a stirrup strap, he leaned down.
“Kirdy, I can not leave any of the brothers with you. They would be smelled out—Ayub beyond all. Your road is dark, Cossack, be wary.”
Searchingly, questioningly, he glanced at the silent figure beside him.
“Aye, ataman,” Kirdy's clear untroubled voice made response.
Satisfied, Khlit reined on, although for a moment he saw nothing of what was before him. For years he had led Kirdy through hardships—had seen him suffer—had tested his courage in a hundred ways. Out of the youth he had forged a weapon. And this weapon, so evenly tempered, had touched his own spirit at parting.
“I have made a Cossack of him,” he thought. “But has he a heart?”
A moment later he flung an order over his shoulder.
“Forward, the kosh! Trot! Singers to the front—the song of the Siech!”
With bowed head Kirdy leaned against the gate-post, Karai curled up in the snow at his feet. Eagerly he listened to the song of the marching Cossacks. He had crossed a continent to join these brothers, and within two hours he was left alone. A twinge of sadness touched him. But to the eye of an onlooker—if any had seen him in the murk of the falling snow—he seemed lost in contemplation. He had a task to perform, and with Kirdy that left no room for consideration of other matters. He must go to the false Tsar and measure swords with him.
When the first patrols of the Dobrudja Tatars in advance of the Vishnevetski regiments entered the streets of the village, riding slowly with keen eyes peering into the snow curtain, they saw neither man nor dog, but only the deserted courtyard of a silent tavern.