Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw
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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 that led to the second level. Without sealing the entrance, they would be no safer below ground than above. Another squad of Mongols tore into the building, and Ratibor found himself engaged with the lot of them. A Tatar leapt in through a window, rolling upright to his feet just to Ratibor’s right. Off flew the fur-trimmed Tatar hat.
“Zdorov, Pane Sotnyk!” greeted the voice of Vyshata, Ratibor’s desyatnyk.
“Hail, Vyshata!” yelled Ratibor as he ran up the stair.
“The city has fallen. It’s a melee out there,” Vyshata reported. “Here, let me hold them off.”
A Mongol followed Ratibor up the staircase, who was in turn chased by Vyshata. A dozen more chased Vyshata. Ratibor dove headfirst over the balustrade, grabbing the rope on the way over. Not to be outdone, the Mongol did likewise. Seeing a dozen pursuers, Vyshata threw his sword at them, and placing a dagger in his teeth, dove for the hanging rope himself.
The weight of three men on the rope was more than the chocks could bear. As the chocks slipped free, the three men dropped into the hole, snapping to a stop when the slack was taken up. They grabbed for the ladder.
There was a great rumble and the Pysaniy Kamin began to roll.
Part I
VANCOUVER, CANADA
August 2002
YAROSLAW HELD the tiller in his right hand while tensioning the mainsheet with his left. Heeling to starboard, the sailboat seemed to come alive. Releasing his grip on the main, Yaroslaw switched hands and turned to tilt the outboard motor out of the water. Astern, the boat’s wake painted a smooth ribbon on the water. To port, low hills were interspersed with buildings and trees. To starboard, a forested peninsula jutted into the wide bay against a backdrop of more distant mountains. The sloop rocked as it broke across some waves, a forgotten wake reflected off a stony beach. Yarko returned his attention to matters of sailing. Reducing his pull on the tiller, he pointed the boat more sharply into the wind. Instantly the boat heeled even more and picked up another knot of speed against the splashing of salty foam.
“I see your seamanship has improved,” said Yarko’s father, Mirko, as he quickly hardened the starboard jib sheet to match the new heading. “You’re learning fast.”
“The world is for the young, Dad,” said Yarko with his wry smile, “and you’re getting a bit old for this.”
Mirko raised his eyebrows at his son’s remark and cuffed him affectionately on the head. Despite their teasing of each other, father and son were close. Mirko was also proud of his son. At twenty years old, Yarko had turned into quite a good-looking young man. He wasn’t tall, but his broad shoulders spoke of many a late hour in the gym. He had finished his third year of university and had been accepted into medical school. This caused his mother no end of joy, although Yarko himself was not looking forward to the long nights of study.
Such thoughts were on everyone’s mind as the family enjoyed their last cruise of the summer. The Vancouver sun still shone warmly, but gone was the mid-summer heat wave of early August.
“I