Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw

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СКАЧАТЬ were pressed to the job of clearing a mountain of bodies and smoothing the path through the gap where the Lyadski Gates once stood. The ground had to be level to be able to bring the porok trebuchet catapults inside the outer walls of Kyiv.

      * * *

      Ratibor woke to a sound like thunder. He climbed up a ladder to the old battlements. He faced the sun as it rose from behind the snow-covered steppes on the left bank of the Dnipro River. Its light glinted on the white prairie and outlined Kyiv’s ramparts in gold. Ratibor doffed his pointed helmet, and slipped off the leather hood that shielded his head and neck from the savage cold. The scalp-lock on his clean-shaven head whipped in the wind, as did the drooping tips of his bushy moustache. Both were snowy-white, except for the dark bit at the tip of the oseledets scalp-lock, serving to remind Ratibor of long-faded youth. He wore these in the forgotten style of Rus′ warriors of old, harkening back to the days of Sviatoslaw the Conqueror. A gust blew frigid crystals off the wooden battlements. Eyes closed to the sting of sun and wind, Ratibor silently asked the Sun God, Dazhboh, for his blessing. As it was for many others in his cohort, the worship of the dead foreign gods of Christianity was only for show. In times of real need, they turned to the gods of old.

      The sound of thunder had come from the Zoloti Vorota behind him. There was fire and smoke by the Golden Gate.

      “What was that?” asked Vsevolod, shaking from more than just the cold. He was one of those on sentry duty.

      “That’s the demonic thunder that they used to make the Lyadski Gates fly.”

      “I count four poroks inside the outer wall,” Vsevolod said matter-of-factly, trying his best to mask the terror that the sight before him created.

      “They are closer to the walls of the City of Volodymyr than they need to be,” said Ratibor. “They are there to draw the last of Rus′ arrows.”

      The noise of a hundred thousand Mongol-Tatars shouting “Urra!” thundered and echoed between the walls of the city. The area between the outer wall and the dytynets was filling with a hundred thousand men. The poroks cast their huge boulders but could not be heard over the din. Flaming arrows streaked over the walls of the City of Volodymyr. Flaming arrows also streaked towards Ratibor’s sector. Almost unnoticed was the advance of the battering ram against the Sofiyski Gates of the citadel.

      “Sentries back down inside!” commanded Ratibor.

      Ratibor was the last to descend, his courage but a mask, put on to comfort those in his charge. The terror was palpable among the young otroks.

      “Where is Nestor?” asked Ratibor. There was no answer. Terror had deafened all that were close enough to hear above the roar of the enemy.

      “Where is Nestor?” Ratibor bellowed.

      “The monk is gone!” said Vsevolod, quaking in fear of both the enemy and his angry commander. “I beg your forgiveness.”

      “Never mind, I think I know.”

      Ratibor examined the room. The second floor ended at a balustrade within the building itself. It was supported by massive log columns. The Pysaniy Kamin, the Rock with two centuries of graffiti on it, stood on a pedestal on that second floor, at a short ramp that was directed at the balustrade. It became clear to Ratibor. When freed from its wedge-shaped chocks, the gigantic boulder would roll down the ramp, break through the balustrade, and drop to the first floor at a spot right here. He walked to the spot just below the balustrade and examined the floor. There was an inconspicuous knothole in one plank.

      “Kyrylo!” Ratibor shouted for his dzhura over the din outside. “Did you get the rope?”

      “Yes, Pane. Here there is lots of rope, and of different sizes.”

      “Thank you, son. Now how about a short stick or a dowel.”

      “Here.”

      There were fires all around. One could barely see outside for the smoke and flames. The roof was beginning to burn. Ratibor fished through Kyrylo’s treasures. He tied a short rope around a dowel. He pushed the dowel all the way through the knothole. It acted as a toggle. Ratibor pulled up on the rope and a section of floor lifted with surprising ease. He ran up the stair to the second floor carrying the rest of the ropes. The wedge-shaped chocks that immobilized the boulder were cast iron. They had dug into the wood just enough so that they could not be easily removed. The chocks had rings at their ends. Ratibor tied a rope between the two rings. He then looped his longest rope around this connecting rope, and tied one end to the rail of the balustrade. The other end he let dangle over the balustrade. It almost reached the floor. This system, he figured, would give him two-to-one mechanical advantage. He ran back down the stair.

      “There are Mongols outside!” cried Vsevolod, unable to hide his panic. “They carry torches. Soon they will be in here.”

      “Guard the doorway with our scar-faced friend,” commanded Ratibor, making sure the stranger heard. “We start the evacuation now. Kyrylo, my faithful dzhura, you will be the first.”

      Ratibor gathered all the otroks around the rope sticking out of the floor. He pulled on it and lifted the hinged section of floor. “Panove, there is a ladder down here, and a cave where all the books are stored,” he said. “Go down and you will live a day longer. Stay here and you will die within the hour. You have already covered yourselves in glory. There is no more glory to be had by staying here. I will be the last down this ladder.”

      The process of moving four dozen young men down one ladder took a long time. Burning sections of the roof crashed down on tables stacked with painstakingly written manuscripts. It was this fire that had kept the Mongol-Tatars from investigating the building, but Ratibor knew that soon his sword and topir would find work again. The scar-faced warrior waited by the door with sword and dagger. Young Vsevolod covered the entryway with his bow.

      “Guests are coming,” announced Ratibor from his vantage by a window. “Four of them.”

      Ratibor glanced at Vsevolod, who was positioned directly in line with the door. What happened next took seconds. As the door opened, Vsevolod’s arrow killed one, and a veritable windmill of sword and battle-axe dispatched the others even before the scar-faced warrior could assist. The last of the otroks were crowding by the trap door.

      “We have exhausted the element of surprise,” said Ratibor, kicking the door closed. “Here come the rest.”

      The door crashed open and a flurry of arrows whistled in. Vsevolod loosed one of his own just as he was struck in the chest. A half-dozen Mongols rushed the doorway. Ratibor engaged two, the scar-faced one challenged a pair himself, but two more ran straight for the wounded Vsevolod, swords in hand. The curved Mongol swords made swift work. In two strokes, Vsevolod was dispatched, cleft, and beheaded.

      Ratibor buried his topir in one and speared his sword into the other. He whirled to face Vsevolod’s attackers, crashing his sword through the shoulder of one just as his scar-faced companion sliced into the helmet of the other.

      “Farewell, brave Vsevolod!” cried Ratibor, tears bursting through to wash the blood-spatter down his face. “To the ladder!”

      The scar-faced one scampered down the ladder. Ratibor seized the rope dangling from the balustrade and jumped into the open shaft after him. Nothing happened. Ratibor found himself hanging above the opening. The Written Rock did not budge.

      Ratibor swung to the floor and ran for the stair СКАЧАТЬ