A Mazin Varangian hero read online. Bogatyr

Alexander Mazin

Bogatyr

© Mazin A., 2016

© Design. LLC "Publishing house" E ", 2016

- They stuffed game, girls too ...

- Did you get the girls? grinned Valgar the Badger, a centurion from the natural Vikings. - It's you in vain. Hey, I'll teach you, Krutoyar, how to deal with girls?

The eyes of the centurion Krutoyar narrowed unkindly:

Artyom put his hand on his shoulder, stopping the quarrel, and pointed with a nod of his head at the youth trampling on the other side of the table.

- What did you want, Uzen? Krutoyar grumbled displeasedly, staring at his subordinate. - Speak, do not hesitate, like a virgin ... ugh, like a calf!

Uzen, a hefty, gloomy combatant of about twenty, boomed gloomily:

- It's none of your business, centurion, I want to ask the prince.

“Ask,” Artyom allowed.

He became curious. Uzen is a local combatant. "Got" to the prince along with the street inheritance and directly addressed him for the first time.

“I want to ask about your brother,” Uzen muttered. - Why did he, prince, take my place at the table? It's a shame!

“I don’t think he knew that this place was yours,” Artyom remarked. Ask him and he will move.

"And if he doesn't want to?"

Artyom glanced at the part where the youths were housed. Ilya settled on the very "top" edge of the table of the younger squad. Whether he knew or not that he had taken someone else's place, but if he knew, it certainly did not bother him. He ate on both cheeks and was not at all embarrassed that he was one and a half times smaller than his neighbors on the table.

- You don't want to, you say? Artyom turned his gaze to Uznya. Well, try to force it.

“But he is your brother, prince!”

- So what? If this place is yours, then it is yours. Are you a boy or a girl? Am I supposed to wipe your snot every time you get hurt? Then you don’t have a place at my table, but over there,” the street prince nodded towards the “women’s” table.

- So you can? - The expression of undeserved resentment, which had just prevailed on Uznya's square face, framed by a short blond beard, was replaced by an anticipatory-aggressive one. - Thank you, prince!

And the lad waddled to the bench, on which, among other street youths of higher dignity, Ilya, Seryogeev's son, was treated to the prince's bounties.

- Won't hurt? - asked the princely centurion Krutoyar, following the broad back of the lad Uznya with his eyes.

- He's my brother. Artyom chuckled. “And it’s not good for my brother to hide behind someone else’s back. He should be respected, not me.

- Can he do it? – doubted Krutoyar. - Uzen got angry. And in anger he is unrestrained, I already know.

“You know,” agreed Artyom. He's one of your hundreds. But Ilya is my brother, the street prince repeated once more. “I won’t wipe his snot.” And he won't allow it. And Uzen got angry because he thinks that he is in his right.

- Is not it so? asked Krutoyar. “This is his place.

- Why do you think so? – inquired Luzgai, commander top hundred Artyom, who was sitting on right hand from the prince. - This is the king's table. And the places behind him - everything is as it is princes. And you and I are also princes. Will you argue?

- No, I won't. But if my boy offends...

- Enough! Artyom cut him off. - Yes, I agree, Ilya is not enough against Uznya, so I, Krutoyar, did not come out with a sprout. And who in this refectory can resist me?

– I would try! Khuzarin Borkh, who was sitting next to Luzgay, immediately declared. - Only - equestrian.

“You will try,” Artyom promised. - But not today. And not with me, but with Ilya. And I'll see what your brother and my relatives taught last summer. Now let's shut up. And we'll see.

The lad Uzen stopped behind the unsuspecting Ilya and slapped the guy on the shoulder.

From a heavy blow, Ilya swayed, spilling honey, put down the bowl, turned around ...

At the prince's table, they did not hear what exactly Ilya Uzen said - it was quite noisy in the refectory. However, from the smirks of neighboring Ilya, and from Ilya's instantly petrified face, it became clear: something very offensive was said.

The prince's brother's lips moved, he took the cup and handed it to Uzny.

He did not take the cup. He shouted something, waved his hand, intending to knock the cup out of Ilya's right hand ... And he missed. But Ilya did not miss. A cup of hot honey splashed into Uzny's face.

While the boy was rubbing his eyes, Ilya also had time to say something to him. And, presumably, not an apology, because the sticky fingers of the street boy almost clutched Ilya's wheaten hair cut in a circle. However, he did not give up - he dived under the table. This was the only way evade, because on both sides of Ilya sat broad-shouldered street vigilantes, and did not think to move.

Dive under the table - not the most glorious way, but Ilya did not stay long there. He dodged, slipped under the bench, emerged to the right of the enraged Uzn and, before he had time to do anything, propped the lad's chin with the blade of his own shoemaker.

In the refectory, by this moment, all conversations had already broken off, and many combatants even jumped up from their seats in order to see better. So what Ilya said could be heard even thirty steps away, at the princely table.

“You must bleed for such words!” Ilya shouted. “But you, I don’t know what to call you, are in my brother’s squad, and it’s his concern to teach you to know the courtesy!” When I myself become a prince, then I will try to make my youths be - not like you and remember strongly that by insulting my guests or relatives, they insult me! And I won’t even take such clumsy and crooked hands as you, even in the yard serfs!

“But he’s right, your brother,” Luzgai said softly. - You need to drive Uznya. I'd rather cut my own throat as a youth than listen to that. And he, you see, is not moving.

- In battle, he was not a coward! - stood up for the combatant Krutoyar.

– A warrior who chooses when to be cowardly and when to be brave? Ha! Borch cheered.

“No, Sveneldich, it doesn’t happen like that,” Luzgai supported the Khuzarin. You are either a good or a slave.

- Ilya! Artyom interrupted the philosophical argument of the older greedy. - Let him go, Ilya! And return the knife. And you, Uzen - run here!

- Krutoyar. The prince of the street turned to the centurion. - This is your man. Order him yourself. And then get him out of my sight and out of my land.

- For what, prince? - Uzen could not stand it. - You allowed it! I am within my rights! Going against your word!

Krutoyar, without getting up, threw a dagger with which he cut meat. The silver pommel hit the boy in the teeth. And immediately jumped up Gridni grabbed Uznya, put him on his knees, pulled his head back. The prince will nod - and they will cut the throat of his comrade-in-arms, coughing up blood and crumbling teeth. Former comrade-in-arms who accused the father-prince of perjury.

Alexander Mazin is known for a large number of his works. It was he who created the Varyag series, in which there are already a considerable number of books telling about epic Russia. In the author's mind, it was time legendary heroes who fought for their sovereign Vladimir the Red Sun. You can argue as much as you like about how this ruler was actually treated, but in the paradigm of Alexander Mazin, this is the ruler beloved by the soldiers, who was protected by the heroes devoted to him.

Alexander Mazin is known not only for a series of books about the Varangians, he successfully lives and works in several countries, works on the creation of prose and poetry, writes dramatic works. From his pen come historical books, science fiction and detective stories. Alexander Mazin's books are loved by "all ages", both sexes, people of various interests. In Russia, the most popular books are about ancient history this country, because in them Alexander Mazin describes the great ancestors and the most important historical events that took place in the territory ancient Russia. He tells how they conquered, created, preserved and inherited the whole world in which modern Russia lives.

The main character of the book "Bogatyr" is Foster-son Prince Sergei. In the common people his name is Ilya Dukharev, but the soldiers call him Ilya Godun. He is fourteen years old, he is strong and strong, healthy and magnificent in battle. But in one of the battles, an arrow hits Ilya's spine, and the powerful teenager turns into a motionless cripple. He does not die, but he will never be able to get back on his feet. His hands are active, but how can a warrior manage in battle with his hands alone?

The protagonist of the book "Bogatyr" by Alexander Mazin proves that yes. Maybe. We recommend that you read this book on your own in order to see the full strength of the spirit of the young hero, who, by his own example, clearly proves that it is not his legs that make a warrior, but a true indestructible spirit that is not subject even to death.

If you decide to read the book "Bogatyr", you will get a simple and not straining style of narration, many interesting characters, and fateful plot twists. The author will even give the reader some amazing time travel. The book also touches on important topics such as rituals, traditions and, of course, there are many battle scenes. From the book "Bogatyr" the reader learns many new historical facts, will witness political conspiracies, without which not a single era of the reign of the great Russian sovereign could do, will see several juicy adventures and all this is the background for demonstrating the fortitude of the young hero.

On our literary site books2you.ru you can download the book Alexander Mazin "Bogatyr" for free in formats suitable for different devices - epub, fb2, txt, rtf. Do you like to read books and always follow the release of new products? We have big choice books of various genres: classics, modern science fiction, literature on psychology and children's editions. In addition, we offer interesting and informative articles for beginner writers and all those who want to learn how to write beautifully. Each of our visitors will be able to find something useful and exciting.

Alexander Mazin

Varangian. Bogatyr

They stuffed game, girls too ...

Did the girls get beat up? - grinned Valgar the Badger, a centurion from the natural Vikings. - It's you in vain. Hey, I'll teach you, Krutoyar, how to deal with girls?

The eyes of the centurion Krutoyar narrowed unkindly:

Artyom put his hand on his shoulder, stopping the quarrel, and pointed with a nod of his head at the youth trampling on the other side of the table.

What did you want, Uzen? - Krutoyar grumbled displeasedly, staring at his subordinate. - Speak, do not hesitate, like a virgin ... ugh, like a calf!

Uzen, a hefty, gloomy combatant of about twenty, boomed gloomily:

It's none of your business, centurion, I want to ask the prince.

Ask, - allowed Artyom.

He became curious. Uzen is a local combatant. "Got" to the prince along with the street inheritance and directly addressed him for the first time.

I want to ask about your brother, - Uzen muttered. - Why did he, prince, take my place at the table? It's a shame!

I think he did not know that this place is yours, - Artyom noticed. - Ask him - and he will move.

What if he doesn't want to?

Artyom glanced at the part where the youths were housed. Ilya settled on the very "top" edge of the table of the younger squad. Whether he knew or not that he had taken someone else's place, but if he knew, it certainly did not bother him. He ate on both cheeks and was not at all embarrassed that he was one and a half times smaller than his neighbors on the table.

Don't want to, you say? - Artyom looked at Uznya. - Well, try to force it.

But he is your brother, prince!

So what? If this place is yours, then it is yours. Are you a boy or a girl? Am I supposed to wipe your snot every time you get hurt? Then you do not have a place at my table, but over there, - the street prince nodded towards the "women's" table.

So is it possible? - The expression of undeserved resentment, which had just prevailed on Uznya's square face, framed by a short blond beard, was replaced by an anticipatory-aggressive one. - Thank you, prince!

And the lad waddled to the bench, on which, among other street youths of higher dignity, Ilya, Seryogeev's son, was treated to the prince's bounties.

Won't hurt? - asked the princely centurion Krutoyar, following the broad back of the lad Uznya with his eyes.

He's my brother. Artyom chuckled. - And my brother is not worth hiding behind someone else's back. He should be respected, not me.

Will he be able to? - doubted Krutoyar. - Uzen got angry. And in anger he is unrestrained, I already know.

You know, - Artyom agreed. - He's one of your hundreds. But Ilya is my brother, the street prince repeated once more. - I'm not going to wipe his snot. And he won't allow it. And Uzen got angry because he thinks that he is in his right.

Is not it so? - asked Krutoyar. - This is his place.

Why do you think so? - inquired Luzgay, the commander of Artyom's best hundred, who was sitting on the right hand of the prince. - This is the prince's table. And the places behind him - everything is as it is princes. And you and I are also princes. Will you argue?

No, I won't. But if my boy offends...

Enough! Artyom cut him off. - Yes, I agree, Ilya is too small against Uznya, so I, Krutoyar, did not come out with a sprout. And who in this refectory can resist me?

I would try! - Khuzarin Borkh, who was sitting next to Luzgay, immediately declared. - Only - equestrian.

You'll try, - promised Artyom. - But not today. And not with me, but with Ilya. And I'll see what your brother and my relatives taught last summer. Now let's shut up. And we'll see.

The lad Uzen stopped behind the unsuspecting Ilya and slapped the guy on the shoulder.

From a heavy blow, Ilya swayed, spilling honey, put down the bowl, turned around ...

At the prince's table, they did not hear what exactly Ilya Uzen said - it was quite noisy in the refectory. However, from the smirks of neighboring Ilya, and from Ilya's instantly petrified face, it became clear: something very offensive was said.

The prince's brother's lips moved, he took the cup and handed it to Uzny.

He did not take the cup. He shouted something, waved his hand, intending to knock the cup out of Ilya's right hand ... And he missed. But Ilya did not miss. A cup of hot honey splashed into Uzny's face.

While the boy was rubbing his eyes, Ilya also had time to say something to him. And, presumably, not an apology, because the sticky fingers of the street boy almost clutched Ilya's wheaten hair cut in a circle. However, he did not give up - he dived under the table. This was the only way to evade, because broad-shouldered street warriors sat on both sides of Ilya, and did not think to move.

Dive under the table - not the most glorious way, but Ilya did not stay there for long. He dodged, slipped under the bench, emerged to the right of the enraged Uzn and, before he had time to do anything, propped the lad's chin with the blade of his own shoemaker.

In the refectory, by this moment, all conversations had already broken off, and many combatants even jumped up from their seats in order to see better. So what Ilya said could be heard even thirty steps away, at the princely table.

You must bleed for such words! Ilya shouted. - But you, I don’t know what to call you, are in my brother’s squad, and it’s his concern to teach you knowledge! When I myself become a prince, I will try to make my youths be - not like you and remember strongly that by insulting my guests or relatives, they insult me! And I won’t even take such clumsy and crooked hands as you, even in the yard serfs!

But he's right, your brother, - Luzgai said softly. - It is necessary to drive Uznya. I'd rather cut my own throat as a youth than listen to that. And he, you see, is not moving.

In battle, he was not a coward! - stood up for the combatant Krutoyar.

A warrior who chooses when to be cowardly and when to be brave? Ha! Borch cheered.

No, Sveneldich, it doesn’t happen like that, ”Luzgay supported the Khuzarin. You are either good or a slave.

Ilya! - Artyom interrupted the philosophical argument of the older greedy. - Let him go, Ilya! And return the knife. And you, Uzen - run here!

Krutoyar. - The street prince turned to the centurion. - This is your man. Order him yourself. And then get him out of my sight and out of my land.

Why, prince? - Uzen could not stand it. - You yourself allowed it! I am within my rights! Going against your word!

Krutoyar, without getting up, threw a dagger with which he cut meat. The silver pommel hit the boy in the teeth. And immediately jumped up Gridni grabbed Uznya, put him on his knees, pulled his head back. The prince will nod - and they will cut the throat of his comrade-in-arms, coughing up blood and crumbling teeth. Former comrade-in-arms who accused the father-prince of perjury.

Brother! Yes, well, him! He's a fool! Sorry! Well, to hell with it!

Artyom shifted his gaze to Ilya and asked sternly:

You took pity on him, so should I?

Ilya was embarrassed, and the gaze of the street prince again turned to the guilty combatant.

My younger brother is young, he said, and therefore kind. But for his sake, I will be kind. You, an outcast, will be given the right to die not as a sheep, but as a warrior. From the blade of one of my Gridneys, whom you point to. Let him go!

Uzen got up from his knees, spat a blood clot on the floor. Indeed, fool. He took and, in addition to everything else, the house, and offended those who live in it. And he himself did not understand that he offended, although he knew the customs.

Spare me, prince... my lord! Let go!

Artyom grimaced, as if from a sour berry. Uzen is no longer his man. But he was. So, he, the prince of Ulich, took the wrong person into the squad. If only Uzen, like a stink, would fall on his knees again ...

Krutoyar, - Artyom grumbled with disgust. - Not here, in the yard.

The centurion understood. He pulled out the sword lying on the bench from the scabbard, nodded to the Grids…

And Uzen realized that he had no choice, and finally behaved like a warrior.

He didn’t have a sword with him (youths at the feast, at the table, are not supposed to), but Krutoyarov’s dagger lay on the floor. It was Uzen who picked him up. Shuizei pulled out a shoemaker from his pocket and prepared to die.

In a duel with a centurion, he did not have the slightest hope, even if Uznya had a sword, and Krutoyar had a shoemaker.

The centurion slowly rounded the table and - a swift lunge, and then the fall of the body. Stunned by a “flat” blow, Uzen collapsed on his back.

To his yard, - commanded Krutoyar. - Comes to his senses - fifty lashes and away from the city!

The memoryless Uznya was dragged out of the refectory.

Artyom nodded approvingly. His mood improved. Yet Uzen turned out to be not a sheep. He showed his teeth.

However, he no longer had a place in the squad of the street prince.

But the stinking son Goshka, who was now called Ilya, once picked up by Artyom, is. But it is better to serve Ilya in Kyiv. Closer to dad. And to the table of the grand duke.

What do you look offended at? he said to his named brother. - This is the prince's share: to know when to punish, and when you can pardon. Someday you will have to.

Then I don’t want to be a prince,” Ilya said gloomily.

And who do you want? - Artyom hid a smile in a thick Varangian mustache.

I will be a warrior, - said Ilya. - Great chorus. To those who gain glory by killing enemies, not by executing their own!

If someone from Artyom's squad had been in Ilya's place, he would not have escaped punishment. But the street prince was indulgent towards his relatives. Because - loved.

© Mazin A., 2016

© Design. LLC "Publishing house" E ", 2016

* * *

- They stuffed game, girls too ...

- Did you get the girls? grinned Valgar the Badger, a centurion from the natural Vikings. - It's you in vain. Hey, I'll teach you, Krutoyar, how to deal with girls?

The eyes of the centurion Krutoyar narrowed unkindly:

Artyom put his hand on his shoulder, stopping the quarrel, and pointed with a nod of his head at the youth trampling on the other side of the table.

- What did you want, Uzen? Krutoyar grumbled displeasedly, staring at his subordinate. - Speak, do not hesitate, like a virgin ... ugh, like a calf!

Uzen, a hefty, gloomy combatant of about twenty, boomed gloomily:

- It's none of your business, centurion, I want to ask the prince.

“Ask,” Artyom allowed.

He became curious. Uzen is a local combatant. "Got" to the prince along with the street inheritance and directly addressed him for the first time.

“I want to ask about your brother,” Uzen muttered. - Why did he, prince, take my place at the table? It's a shame!

“I don’t think he knew that this place was yours,” Artyom remarked. Ask him and he will move.

"And if he doesn't want to?"

Artyom glanced at the part where the youths were housed. Ilya settled on the very "top" edge of the table of the younger squad. Whether he knew or not that he had taken someone else's place, but if he knew, it certainly did not bother him. He ate on both cheeks and was not at all embarrassed that he was one and a half times smaller than his neighbors on the table.

- You don't want to, you say? Artyom turned his gaze to Uznya. Well, try to force it.

“But he is your brother, prince!”

- So what? If this place is yours, then it is yours. Are you a boy or a girl? Am I supposed to wipe your snot every time you get hurt? Then you don’t have a place at my table, but over there,” the street prince nodded towards the “women’s” table.

- So you can? - The expression of undeserved resentment, which had just prevailed on Uznya's square face, framed by a short blond beard, was replaced by an anticipatory-aggressive one. - Thank you, prince!

And the lad waddled to the bench, on which, among other street youths of higher dignity, Ilya, Seryogeev's son, was treated to the prince's bounties.

- Won't hurt? - asked the princely centurion Krutoyar, following the broad back of the lad Uznya with his eyes.

- He's my brother. Artyom chuckled. “And it’s not good for my brother to hide behind someone else’s back. He should be respected, not me.

- Can he do it? – doubted Krutoyar. - Uzen got angry. And in anger he is unrestrained, I already know.

“You know,” agreed Artyom. He's one of your hundreds. But Ilya is my brother, the street prince repeated once more. “I won’t wipe his snot.” And he won't allow it. And Uzen got angry because he thinks that he is in his right.

- Is not it so? asked Krutoyar. “This is his place.

- Why do you think so? inquired Luzgai, the commander of Artyom's best hundred, who was sitting on the right hand of the prince. - This is the king's table.

And the places behind him - everything is as it is princes. And you and I are also princes. Will you argue?

- No, I won't. But if my boy offends...

- Enough! Artyom cut him off. - Yes, I agree, Ilya is not enough against Uznya, so I, Krutoyar, did not come out with a sprout. And who in this refectory can resist me?

– I would try! Khuzarin Borkh, who was sitting next to Luzgay, immediately declared. - Only - equestrian.

“You will try,” Artyom promised. - But not today. And not with me, but with Ilya. And I'll see what your brother and my relatives taught last summer. Now let's shut up. And we'll see.

The lad Uzen stopped behind the unsuspecting Ilya and slapped the guy on the shoulder.

From a heavy blow, Ilya swayed, spilling honey, put down the bowl, turned around ...

At the prince's table, they did not hear what exactly Ilya Uzen said - it was quite noisy in the refectory. However, from the smirks of neighboring Ilya, and from Ilya's instantly petrified face, it became clear: something very offensive was said.

The prince's brother's lips moved, he took the cup and handed it to Uzny.

He did not take the cup. He shouted something, waved his hand, intending to knock the cup out of Ilya's right hand ... And he missed. But Ilya did not miss. A cup of hot honey splashed into Uzny's face.

While the boy was rubbing his eyes, Ilya also had time to say something to him. And, presumably, not an apology, because the sticky fingers of the street boy almost clutched Ilya's wheaten hair cut in a circle. However, he did not give up - he dived under the table. This was the only way to evade, because broad-shouldered street warriors sat on both sides of Ilya, and did not think to move.

Dive under the table - not the most glorious way, but Ilya did not stay long there. He dodged, slipped under the bench, emerged to the right of the enraged Uzn and, before he had time to do anything, propped the lad's chin with the blade of his own shoemaker.

In the refectory, by this moment, all conversations had already broken off, and many combatants even jumped up from their seats in order to see better. So what Ilya said could be heard even thirty steps away, at the princely table.

“You must bleed for such words!” Ilya shouted. “But you, I don’t know what to call you, are in my brother’s squad, and it’s his concern to teach you to know the courtesy!” When I myself become a prince, then I will try to make my youths be - not like you and remember strongly that by insulting my guests or relatives, they insult me! And I won’t even take such clumsy and crooked hands as you, even in the yard serfs!

“But he’s right, your brother,” Luzgai said softly. - You need to drive Uznya. I'd rather cut my own throat as a youth than listen to that. And he, you see, is not moving.

- In battle, he was not a coward! - stood up for the combatant Krutoyar.

– A warrior who chooses when to be cowardly and when to be brave? Ha! Borch cheered.

“No, Sveneldich, it doesn’t happen like that,” Luzgai supported the Khuzarin. You are either a good or a slave.

- Ilya! Artyom interrupted the philosophical argument of the older greedy. - Let him go, Ilya! And return the knife. And you, Uzen - run here!

- Krutoyar. The prince of the street turned to the centurion. - This is your man. Order him yourself. And then get him out of my sight and out of my land.

- For what, prince? - Uzen could not stand it. - You allowed it! I am within my rights! Going against your word!

Krutoyar, without getting up, threw a dagger with which he cut meat. The silver pommel hit the boy in the teeth. And immediately jumped up Gridni grabbed Uznya, put him on his knees, pulled his head back. The prince will nod - and they will cut the throat of his comrade-in-arms, coughing up blood and crumbling teeth. Former comrade-in-arms who accused the father-prince of perjury.

- Brother! Yes, well, him! He's a fool! Sorry! Well, to hell with it!

Artyom shifted his gaze to Ilya and asked sternly:

“You took pity on him, so should I?”

Ilya was embarrassed, and the gaze of the street prince again turned to the guilty combatant.

“My younger brother is young,” he said, “and therefore kind. But for his sake, I will be kind. You, an outcast, will be given the right to die not as a sheep, but as a warrior. From the blade of one of my Gridneys, whom you point to. Let him go!

Uzen got up from his knees, spat a blood clot on the floor. Indeed, fool. He took and, in addition to everything else, the house, and offended those who live in it. And he himself did not understand that he offended, although he knew the customs.

- Spare me, prince ... my lord! Let go!

Artyom grimaced, as if from a sour berry. Uzen is no longer his man. But he was. So, he, the prince of Ulich, took the wrong person into the squad. If only Uzen, like a stink, would fall on his knees again ...

“Krutoyar,” Artyom muttered with disgust. “Not here, in the yard.

The centurion understood. He pulled out the sword lying on the bench from the scabbard, nodded to the Grids…

And Uzen realized that he had no choice, and finally behaved like a warrior.

He didn’t have a sword with him (youths at the feast, at the table, are not supposed to), but Krutoyarov’s dagger lay on the floor. It was Uzen who picked him up. Shuizei pulled out a shoemaker from his pocket and prepared to die.

In a duel with a centurion, he did not have the slightest hope, even if Uznya had a sword, and Krutoyar had a shoemaker.

The centurion slowly rounded the table and - a swift lunge, and then the fall of the body. Stunned by a “flat” blow, Uzen collapsed on his back.

“To his yard,” Krutoyar commanded. - Comes to his senses - fifty lashes and away from the city!

The memoryless Uznya was dragged out of the refectory.

Artyom nodded approvingly. His mood improved. Yet Uzen turned out to be not a sheep. He showed his teeth.

However, he no longer had a place in the squad of the street prince.

But the stinking son Goshka, who was now called Ilya, once picked up by Artyom, is. But it is better to serve Ilya in Kyiv. Closer to dad. And to the table of the grand duke.

- Why are you looking offended? he said to his named brother. - This is the prince's share: to know when to punish, and when you can pardon. Someday you will have to.

“Then I don’t want to be a prince,” Ilya said gloomily.

- And who do you want? Artyom hid his smile in his thick Varangian mustache.

“I will be a warrior,” Ilya declared. - Great chorus. To those who gain glory by killing enemies, not by executing their own!

If someone from Artyom's squad had been in Ilya's place, he would not have escaped punishment. But the street prince was indulgent towards his relatives. Because he loved.

He could also remind that it is not he who is punishing now, but Krutoyar, and not his combatant, but an outcast, but he said differently:

- Our own, brother, can be more dangerous than the most terrible enemies. If suddenly they turn out to be like this one. Go ahead and eat. Tomorrow you will have a hard day. You will go on a hike. Here he is,” a nod towards Borch, “he agreed to personally check how you were taught from his relative Masheg.

- O! - Delighted, Ilya instantly forgot about Uzna and the prince's unpleasant duties. - Truth? That's great! Shall we go to the Wild Field? Smoked beat?

“Whoever we find, we will beat, brother Ilya,” Borch promised. - The time is good now - in the field of robbers there will be enough for everyone ...

Part one
Cripple

Chapter 1

Morov. Ilya Godun, named son of the prince-voivode Sergei

Elijah opened his eyes. Above him - the same hateful ceiling. And instead of legs - the already familiar emptiness.

Dream. From past. It was a year ago. It's like an eternity has passed. Eternity - from the time he was a man. Warrior.

Ilya was awakened by sounds from outside. People, horses, iron ... A large detachment, thirty spears, no less.

Dad has arrived.

The door to the room swung open. Bending down so as not to catch his head on the lintel, Seryogei, the prince-voivode of Morov, entered the bedroom.

- Hello, son! he boomed. - Didn't wait?

“I didn’t wait, father,” Ilya said indifferently.

Didn't even move. As he lay, he remained lying, watching the flies swarm under the ceiling.

- Would you at least get up, or something, son? Dukharev said reproachfully.

Ilya sighed, leaned on his hands, raised his body, leaned against the wall that smelled of fresh wood (the house was completed just a week ago).

“Drink out of the way, sir!” - The barefoot girl, who appeared from the cage, gave Sergei Ivanovich a ladle of beer. - Cold, from the glacier!

Dukharev emptied the ladle with pleasure, wiped his mustache with a towel, pinched the girl's buttocks, and winked at his named son.

Elijah didn't respond. Not a girl, not a wink. What does he need girls now ...

- Eh, son, son ... - Duharev sat down on the bed next to Ilya, which creaked plaintively under his considerable weight. - You are a warrior! Varangian! Missed a hit - get up! And fight! You are my kind! You are alive! Don't you dare give up!

“And what is my life like, father ...” Ilya muttered in a dull voice.

He is tired. He held on as long as he could. He struggled with pain while there was pain ... Now there is almost no pain left, and there was nothing to fight with. And not with anyone. He is a cripple. For life. Hopefully it won't be long.

- What a warrior I am now, father. What kind of warrior is without legs?

“A warrior is not legs,” Dukharev said sternly. And not hands. A warrior is a warrior spirit. Here! - Sergey Ivanovich sensitively poked Ilya in the chest with his fist. - And here! - Hard as a twig, a finger tapped Ilya on the forehead. - I am the head of the family! I told you, boy, get up and go! So get up and go!

“You are the eldest,” Ilya agreed. But you are not Jesus. You do not have such power to heal the paralyzed.

“Already good,” Dukharev praised. “I haven’t forgotten, then, the Holy Scriptures. You are right son. I cannot heal you. But help is a must. – The smile lifted the thick, steel-colored mustache of the governor. - Hey there! Bring in!

A couple of youths, sympathetically looking sideways at the cripple, brought a strange contraption into the room: a wooden frame on four supports three elbows high. Straps dangled from the inside of the frame, looking somewhat like the basket of a stone-throwing war machine.

- Come on! - Unexpectedly, Dukharev grabbed Ilya, lifted him high and, barking to the youths: - Accept! - lowered inside an incomprehensible thing. Ilya's unconscious legs hung between the straps. Another belt, wide, wider than the combat one, Dukharev tightened around Ilya's waist. - Excellent sat! Exactly to measure! And now look! - Sergey Ivanovich took from the boy and gave Ilya two more incomprehensible gizmos, similar to crutches, only not with one, but with three legs, splayed out like spider legs.

- So, these are the armpits, you take hold of these crossbars, pushing ... Well, what are you waiting for? Or have you lost your arms too?

Obeying not so much own will, how much to the angry voice of his father, Ilya did what was required, and hung on crutches.

– Already better! Dukharev praised. “Now, go!”

- How? Ilya didn't understand.

- But like this!

And showed.

And Ilya did not immediately, but it worked out. "Walked" around the room back and forth, got the hang of it a little. Out of habit, my arms and shoulders ached, but Ilya didn’t give a damn about such an insignificant pain. He even rejoiced at her. Because it was a good pain. Familiar.

- Well, let's go to the canopy! - Dad ordered.

Ilya awkwardly jumped to the door.

- And now to the exit!

Ilya froze on the porch. Half a dozen steps seemed like an insurmountable obstacle.

Ilya looked at the yard, at the bustle in it, at the warriors who unsaddled their horses. Everything is unfamiliar. How long did he stay? How long have you not looked at the world from the height of your own height? Month? Two? More? Autumn already. Look, the leaves are turning yellow...

Remembered the past. I wish I could run away now, fly up on a horse ...

Ilya clenched his teeth to keep from crying. But tears welled up in my eyes anyway.

A hand rested on his shoulder. Father guessed the thoughts:

“Don't feel sorry for yourself, son. Ashamed. - He looked, bending down, into his eyes: - You are alive, Ilya! Like this! Grit your teeth and live, okay?

Why live like this, dad? Ilya breathed out. - What is the use in such a life?

“Life itself is good, son. God left you life, and it's not in vain. Grit your teeth and live, okay? You are a warrior! You are in our family! Don't shame him! Do not let me regret that I called you a son! No legs, no hands - grab your teeth, don't let go! Trust me, it's gotten worse! Give up - shame on us all. Me, Artyom, Slavka. To our wives, that you were recaptured from death. Old Rorekh will look at you from behind the Edge - he will spit and turn away. Shame on him to see you surrendered.

“He’s going to spit,” Ilya muttered. - Behind the Edge...

“How much do you know about Kromka, youngster?” - snapped the father. - Listen to what I say!

“But he knows,” Ilya thought. “He is a witch.”

It suddenly seemed like grandpa Rorekh was looking at him, seeing how he, buried in the wall, lying down and feeling sorry for himself ... Wow, he would have warmed Ilya with a stick for this in the old days ...

And then I remembered: and after all, Dad was in the same trouble. When he, wounded, was brought from Khortitsa. Couldn't move. Rorekh said: another would have died, but dad would have survived. Consider that he was pulled out from behind Kromka. Can you pull someone who can't stretch himself? Teeth, if nothing else ...

So Ilya clenched his teeth and pushed with crutches from the porch ...

So I would have crashed head down, if dad hadn’t picked it up, straightened it out. The walkers hit the ground, creaked, but did not break. Ilya groaned too. Teeth. Because the pain ripped through my back - like in the worst of times. Ilya barely restrained his cry, he shrank all over ... Well, how can he not let go now?

Let go.

Dad also breathed a sigh of relief: he guessed that he felt better.

- Why are you so careless, boy? You have to take the weight on your hands, got it? And exercise your back so that the strength returns. You will need a lot of power now. In the arms, in the back, in the stomach, to replace your legs.

“I will, dad,” Ilya promised. - I'll exercise. Learn how.

“Yes, I’ll teach you,” Sergei Ivanovich grumbled, trying not to show how everything inside rejoices: he pulled the guy out of depression. And it wasn't hard either. Only show the goal to such a person - he will trample, you will not stop.

- Come on, don't stop. You will freeze out of habit.

And that's right. Ilya is in one shirt, and summer is long over. In the old days, Sergei Ivanovich would not have bothered: hardening at Gridneys - on highest level. But today there is no such certainty. The boy is weakened.

Didn't have to repeat it twice. Ilya pushed and jumped around the yard. Awkward, but energetic.

They gave way to him, but they did not try to help. Someone greeted, Ilya answered without hesitation.

Duharev walked behind. Ilya did not see him, but he knew: here. If necessary, help, support. If needed.

Inside is a bustle too. The smell is so familiar, even dizzy. AND…

- Pigeon! Ilya pressed his cheek. - Pigeon…

How could he forget about a friend?

"He's fine," his father said softly behind him.

Ilya himself saw that the stallion was healthy, strong and well-groomed. It was Ilya who forgot about him, but his father did not. He doesn't forget anything, dad.

Tears welled up in my eyes. No, he won't give up. He will not dishonor his kind. Never.

“My poor man,” thought Sergei Dukharev, looking at his son embracing a horse that he would never ride. Although…

Why - never? You can also come up with something here. The same frame instead of a saddle ... It is not possible - it is necessary!

“Let's go, Ilya,” he said, placing his hand on Ilya's bent back. - Let's get down to business. Stop lying around like a dead worm. It's time to get strong again.

It was not difficult to show the carpenters exactly what was required. But to come up with a complete training complex - yes. Although, for a start, Sergey Ivanovich limited himself to several crossbars for pull-ups and push-ups and a kind of barbell for the bench press. Ilya could do all the exercises without getting out of bed. Also - a belt to fasten across the hips: pump the press and back. So far enough. On the rest, it will be necessary to consult with Slada: it would not hurt.

We collected everything for the evening. Dukharev personally showed how to pull himself up, pump the press, how to do push-ups on the uneven bars fixed in the corner. Ilya was supposed to be brought to the bars, but this is at first. Then Ilya had to "approach" them himself. With a walker, of course. Yarosh was appointed responsible for physiotherapy exercises. If he himself is busy, he will find an intelligent lackey.

Separately, Duharev talked to the girl who gave Ilya a massage and helped in all sorts of natural needs. He especially ordered to make sure that there were no abrasions and abrasions on the paralyzed parts of the body. However, she would have managed without instructions from Sergei Ivanovich. Slada instructed her in the most detailed manner and supplied her with all the necessary pharmacology.

Chapter 2

Morov. Ilya Godun, legless warrior

Pain is good. Mother said: “If it hurts downstairs - put a candle to God, - it is he who returns your legs.”

It wasn't the legs that hurt. There were still no legs - only one visibility. Shoulders, back, stomach hurt. Pain is gratifying. "Pain is the warrior's companion, Godong!" So Rorech said. And thrashed Ilya mercilessly. Now Ilya was in pain just like in the old days. It hurt right. Good pain. She is good. And before the pain was evil. Worse than torture.

Pain - poppy decoction - oblivion - pain - decoction ...

Then just pain - without saving oblivion. So Mother Sladislav decided. "It is forbidden. Get used to it and the poppy will make you weak. Be patient!

Something, but Ilya knew how to endure. It would be for what.

Now it was. Do not disgrace the family!

Ilya took the towel from the girl's hands and wiped his face. Returning, he caught the girl's look: different, not the same as five weeks ago, when Ilya lay in bed, unable to even cope with a small need himself. Another look. So the girls looked at him before, until the fatal arrow that turned the prince's grid into a cripple.

Ilya chuckled. Looks in vain. There is no masculine power in him now.

But still nice.

Ilya put his hands into the belt loops, pulled himself up once or twice ... His legs still hung like a dead weight, but everything else was filled with strength again. Real military. Now Ilya can draw a bow, or even sit on a horse ...

No, he can't ride a horse. The rider needs legs no less than the pawn.

Again, a bad thing burst into my heart ... but Ilya drove it away. Did it. Up! Once again - up! To a crunch in the joints, to a good pain in the muscles. And when the exhausted body ceases to obey, it is necessary to force it, to force it. Through good pain, through lethargy, fatigue, weakness. All this Ilya was very good at.

Dad came every week. Praised. Every time I came up with something new. Last time, I adapted the board so that Ilya could slide down it into a walker. Ropes stretched throughout the room. Now Ilya is able to get to the table himself and settle in the chair. And in another chair, which is out of need. Dad also brought chairs: it’s hard for Ilya to sit on the bench now.

Dad tried.

Ilya also tried. He worked from morning till night. Instead of resting, I talked with Kuliba. Polochanin Ilya was given by his father. Said like this:

- Centurion Kulib will be my governor in Morov, for the time being. A faithful man, and there is something to learn from him, and our smerds will not spoil him. Though plowmen, even foresters.

So in the Morovian principality, for the time being, Kuliba was in charge.

But Ilya told about everything. Where someone lives, what villages along the river and in nearby forests, who can pay what kind of tribute. What has been built, what will be built, what else will be built. He praised Batya Kuliba very much. For great generosity. For example, they built an inn at the pier - it has already paid off. And a mill.

Ilya then wrote down from memory. About Morov - in Slovenian writing. About his exercises - twice: in Latin and in Romaic. My father told me to write. Everything you did in a day. What and how much. Arabic numerals. And add a little every day.

Current page: 1 (total book has 20 pages) [accessible reading excerpt: 14 pages]

Alexander Mazin
Varangian. Bogatyr

© Mazin A., 2016

© Design. LLC "Publishing house" E ", 2016

* * *

- They stuffed game, girls too ...

- Did you get the girls? grinned Valgar the Badger, a centurion from the natural Vikings. - It's you in vain. Hey, I'll teach you, Krutoyar, how to deal with girls?

The eyes of the centurion Krutoyar narrowed unkindly:

Artyom put his hand on his shoulder, stopping the quarrel, and pointed with a nod of his head at the youth trampling on the other side of the table.

- What did you want, Uzen? Krutoyar grumbled displeasedly, staring at his subordinate. - Speak, do not hesitate, like a virgin ... ugh, like a calf!

Uzen, a hefty, gloomy combatant of about twenty, boomed gloomily:

- It's none of your business, centurion, I want to ask the prince.

“Ask,” Artyom allowed.

He became curious. Uzen is a local combatant. "Got" to the prince along with the street inheritance and directly addressed him for the first time.

“I want to ask about your brother,” Uzen muttered. - Why did he, prince, take my place at the table? It's a shame!

“I don’t think he knew that this place was yours,” Artyom remarked. Ask him and he will move.

"And if he doesn't want to?"

Artyom glanced at the part where the youths were housed. Ilya settled on the very "top" edge of the table of the younger squad. Whether he knew or not that he had taken someone else's place, but if he knew, it certainly did not bother him. He ate on both cheeks and was not at all embarrassed that he was one and a half times smaller than his neighbors on the table.

- You don't want to, you say? Artyom turned his gaze to Uznya. Well, try to force it.

“But he is your brother, prince!”

- So what? If this place is yours, then it is yours. Are you a boy or a girl? Am I supposed to wipe your snot every time you get hurt? Then you don’t have a place at my table, but over there,” the street prince nodded towards the “women’s” table.

- So you can? - The expression of undeserved resentment, which had just prevailed on Uznya's square face, framed by a short blond beard, was replaced by an anticipatory-aggressive one. - Thank you, prince!

And the lad waddled to the bench, on which, among other street youths of higher dignity, Ilya, Seryogeev's son, was treated to the prince's bounties.

- Won't hurt? - asked the princely centurion Krutoyar, following the broad back of the lad Uznya with his eyes.

- He's my brother. Artyom chuckled. “And it’s not good for my brother to hide behind someone else’s back. He should be respected, not me.

- Can he do it? – doubted Krutoyar. - Uzen got angry. And in anger he is unrestrained, I already know.

“You know,” agreed Artyom. He's one of your hundreds. But Ilya is my brother, the street prince repeated once more. “I won’t wipe his snot.” And he won't allow it. And Uzen got angry because he thinks that he is in his right.

- Is not it so? asked Krutoyar. “This is his place.

- Why do you think so? inquired Luzgai, the commander of Artyom's best hundred, who was sitting on the right hand of the prince. - This is the king's table. And the places behind him - everything is as it is princes. And you and I are also princes. Will you argue?

- No, I won't. But if my boy offends...

- Enough! Artyom cut him off. - Yes, I agree, Ilya is not enough against Uznya, so I, Krutoyar, did not come out with a sprout. And who in this refectory can resist me?

– I would try! Khuzarin Borkh, who was sitting next to Luzgay, immediately declared. - Only - equestrian.

“You will try,” Artyom promised. - But not today. And not with me, but with Ilya. And I'll see what your brother and my relatives taught last summer. Now let's shut up. And we'll see.

The lad Uzen stopped behind the unsuspecting Ilya and slapped the guy on the shoulder.

From a heavy blow, Ilya swayed, spilling honey, put down the bowl, turned around ...

At the prince's table, they did not hear what exactly Ilya Uzen said - it was quite noisy in the refectory. However, from the smirks of neighboring Ilya, and from Ilya's instantly petrified face, it became clear: something very offensive was said.

The prince's brother's lips moved, he took the cup and handed it to Uzny.

He did not take the cup. He shouted something, waved his hand, intending to knock the cup out of Ilya's right hand ... And he missed. But Ilya did not miss. A cup of hot honey splashed into Uzny's face.

While the boy was rubbing his eyes, Ilya also had time to say something to him. And, presumably, not an apology, because the sticky fingers of the street boy almost clutched Ilya's wheaten hair cut in a circle. However, he did not give up - he dived under the table. This was the only way to evade, because broad-shouldered street warriors sat on both sides of Ilya, and did not think to move.

Dive under the table - not the most glorious way, but Ilya did not stay long there. He dodged, slipped under the bench, emerged to the right of the enraged Uzn and, before he had time to do anything, propped the lad's chin with the blade of his own shoemaker.

In the refectory, by this moment, all conversations had already broken off, and many combatants even jumped up from their seats in order to see better. So what Ilya said could be heard even thirty steps away, at the princely table.

“You must bleed for such words!” Ilya shouted. “But you, I don’t know what to call you, are in my brother’s squad, and it’s his concern to teach you to know the courtesy!” When I myself become a prince, then I will try to make my youths be - not like you and remember strongly that by insulting my guests or relatives, they insult me! And I won’t even take such clumsy and crooked hands as you, even in the yard serfs!

“But he’s right, your brother,” Luzgai said softly. - You need to drive Uznya. I'd rather cut my own throat as a youth than listen to that. And he, you see, is not moving.

- In battle, he was not a coward! - stood up for the combatant Krutoyar.

– A warrior who chooses when to be cowardly and when to be brave? Ha! Borch cheered.

“No, Sveneldich, it doesn’t happen like that,” Luzgai supported the Khuzarin. You are either a good or a slave.

- Ilya! Artyom interrupted the philosophical argument of the older greedy. - Let him go, Ilya! And return the knife. And you, Uzen - run here!

- Krutoyar. The prince of the street turned to the centurion. - This is your man. Order him yourself. And then get him out of my sight and out of my land.

- For what, prince? - Uzen could not stand it. - You allowed it! I am within my rights! Going against your word!

Krutoyar, without getting up, threw a dagger with which he cut meat. The silver pommel hit the boy in the teeth. And immediately jumped up Gridni grabbed Uznya, put him on his knees, pulled his head back. The prince will nod - and they will cut the throat of his comrade-in-arms, coughing up blood and crumbling teeth. Former comrade-in-arms who accused the father-prince of perjury.

- Brother! Yes, well, him! He's a fool! Sorry! Well, to hell with it!

Artyom shifted his gaze to Ilya and asked sternly:

“You took pity on him, so should I?”

Ilya was embarrassed, and the gaze of the street prince again turned to the guilty combatant.

“My younger brother is young,” he said, “and therefore kind. But for his sake, I will be kind. You, an outcast, will be given the right to die not as a sheep, but as a warrior. From the blade of one of my Gridneys, whom you point to. Let him go!

Uzen got up from his knees, spat a blood clot on the floor. Indeed, fool. He took and, in addition to everything else, the house, and offended those who live in it. And he himself did not understand that he offended, although he knew the customs.

- Spare me, prince ... my lord! Let go!

Artyom grimaced, as if from a sour berry. Uzen is no longer his man. But he was. So, he, the prince of Ulich, took the wrong person into the squad. If only Uzen, like a stink, would fall on his knees again ...

“Krutoyar,” Artyom muttered with disgust. “Not here, in the yard.

The centurion understood. He pulled out the sword lying on the bench from the scabbard, nodded to the Grids…

And Uzen realized that he had no choice, and finally behaved like a warrior.

He didn’t have a sword with him (youths at the feast, at the table, are not supposed to), but Krutoyarov’s dagger lay on the floor. It was Uzen who picked him up. Shuizei pulled out a shoemaker from his pocket and prepared to die.

In a duel with a centurion, he did not have the slightest hope, even if Uznya had a sword, and Krutoyar had a shoemaker.

The centurion slowly rounded the table and - a swift lunge, and then the fall of the body. Stunned by a “flat” blow, Uzen collapsed on his back.

“To his yard,” Krutoyar commanded. - Comes to his senses - fifty lashes and away from the city!

The memoryless Uznya was dragged out of the refectory.

Artyom nodded approvingly. His mood improved. Yet Uzen turned out to be not a sheep. He showed his teeth.

However, he no longer had a place in the squad of the street prince.

But the stinking son Goshka, who was now called Ilya, once picked up by Artyom, is. But it is better to serve Ilya in Kyiv. Closer to dad. And to the table of the grand duke.

- Why are you looking offended? he said to his named brother. - This is the prince's share: to know when to punish, and when you can pardon. Someday you will have to.

“Then I don’t want to be a prince,” Ilya said gloomily.

- And who do you want? Artyom hid his smile in his thick Varangian mustache.

“I will be a warrior,” Ilya declared. - Great chorus. To those who gain glory by killing enemies, not by executing their own!

If someone from Artyom's squad had been in Ilya's place, he would not have escaped punishment. But the street prince was indulgent towards his relatives. Because he loved.

He could also remind that it is not he who is punishing now, but Krutoyar, and not his combatant, but an outcast, but he said differently:

- Our own, brother, can be more dangerous than the most terrible enemies. If suddenly they turn out to be like this one. Go ahead and eat. Tomorrow you will have a hard day. You will go on a hike. Here he is,” a nod towards Borch, “he agreed to personally check how you were taught from his relative Masheg.

- O! - Delighted, Ilya instantly forgot about Uzna and the prince's unpleasant duties. - Truth? That's great! Shall we go to the Wild Field? Smoked beat?

“Whoever we find, we will beat, brother Ilya,” Borch promised. - The time is good now - in the field of robbers there will be enough for everyone ...

Part one
Cripple

Chapter 1

Morov. Ilya Godun, named son of the prince-voivode Sergei

Elijah opened his eyes. Above him - the same hateful ceiling. And instead of legs - the already familiar emptiness.

Dream. From past. It was a year ago. It's like an eternity has passed. Eternity - from the time he was a man. Warrior.

Ilya was awakened by sounds from outside. People, horses, iron ... A large detachment, thirty spears, no less.

Dad has arrived.

The door to the room swung open. Bending down so as not to catch his head on the lintel, Seryogei, the prince-voivode of Morov, entered the bedroom.

- Hello, son! he boomed. - Didn't wait?

“I didn’t wait, father,” Ilya said indifferently.

Didn't even move. As he lay, he remained lying, watching the flies swarm under the ceiling.

- Would you at least get up, or something, son? Dukharev said reproachfully.

Ilya sighed, leaned on his hands, raised his body, leaned against the wall that smelled of fresh wood (the house was completed just a week ago).

“Drink out of the way, sir!” - The barefoot girl, who appeared from the cage, gave Sergei Ivanovich a ladle of beer. - Cold, from the glacier!

Dukharev emptied the ladle with pleasure, wiped his mustache with a towel, pinched the girl's buttocks, and winked at his named son.

Elijah didn't respond. Not a girl, not a wink. What does he need girls now ...

- Eh, son, son ... - Duharev sat down on the bed next to Ilya, which creaked plaintively under his considerable weight. - You are a warrior! Varangian! Missed a hit - get up! And fight! You are my kind! You are alive! Don't you dare give up!

“And what is my life like, father ...” Ilya muttered in a dull voice.

He is tired. He held on as long as he could. He struggled with pain while there was pain ... Now there is almost no pain left, and there was nothing to fight with. And not with anyone. He is a cripple. For life. Hopefully it won't be long.

- What a warrior I am now, father. What kind of warrior is without legs?

“A warrior is not legs,” Dukharev said sternly. And not hands. A warrior is a warrior spirit. Here! - Sergey Ivanovich sensitively poked Ilya in the chest with his fist. - And here! - Hard as a twig, a finger tapped Ilya on the forehead. - I am the head of the family! I told you, boy, get up and go! So get up and go!

“You are the eldest,” Ilya agreed. But you are not Jesus. You do not have such power to heal the paralyzed.

“Already good,” Dukharev praised. “I haven’t forgotten, then, the Holy Scriptures. You are right son. I cannot heal you. But help is a must. – The smile lifted the thick, steel-colored mustache of the governor. - Hey there! Bring in!

A couple of youths, sympathetically looking sideways at the cripple, brought a strange contraption into the room: a wooden frame on four supports three elbows high. Straps dangled from the inside of the frame, looking somewhat like the basket of a stone-throwing war machine.

- Come on! - Unexpectedly, Dukharev grabbed Ilya, lifted him high and, barking to the youths: - Accept! - lowered inside an incomprehensible thing. Ilya's unconscious legs hung between the straps. Another belt, wide, wider than the combat one, Dukharev tightened around Ilya's waist. - Excellent sat! Exactly to measure! And now look! - Sergey Ivanovich took from the boy and gave Ilya two more incomprehensible gizmos, similar to crutches, only not with one, but with three legs, splayed out like spider legs.

- So, these are the armpits, you take hold of these crossbars, pushing ... Well, what are you waiting for? Or have you lost your arms too?

Obeying not so much his own desire as the angry voice of his father, Ilya did what was required and hung on crutches.

– Already better! Dukharev praised. “Now, go!”

- How? Ilya didn't understand.

- But like this!

And showed.

And Ilya did not immediately, but it worked out. "Walked" around the room back and forth, got the hang of it a little. Out of habit, my arms and shoulders ached, but Ilya didn’t give a damn about such an insignificant pain. He even rejoiced at her. Because it was a good pain. Familiar.

- Well, let's go to the canopy! - Dad ordered.

Ilya awkwardly jumped to the door.

- And now to the exit!

Ilya froze on the porch. Half a dozen steps seemed like an insurmountable obstacle.

Ilya looked at the yard, at the bustle in it, at the warriors who unsaddled their horses. Everything is unfamiliar. How long did he stay? How long have you not looked at the world from the height of your own height? Month? Two? More? Autumn already. Look, the leaves are turning yellow...

Remembered the past. I wish I could run away now, fly up on a horse ...

Ilya clenched his teeth to keep from crying. But tears welled up in my eyes anyway.

A hand rested on his shoulder. Father guessed the thoughts:

“Don't feel sorry for yourself, son. Ashamed. - He looked, bending down, into his eyes: - You are alive, Ilya! Like this! Grit your teeth and live, okay?

Why live like this, dad? Ilya breathed out. - What is the use in such a life?

“Life itself is good, son. God left you life, and it's not in vain. Grit your teeth and live, okay? You are a warrior! You are in our family! Don't shame him! Do not let me regret that I called you a son! No legs, no hands - grab your teeth, don't let go! Trust me, it's gotten worse! Give up - shame on us all. Me, Artyom, Slavka. To our wives, that you were recaptured from death. Old Rorekh will look at you from behind the Edge - he will spit and turn away. Shame on him to see you surrendered.

“He’s going to spit,” Ilya muttered. - Behind the Edge...

“How much do you know about Kromka, youngster?” - snapped the father. - Listen to what I say!

“But he knows,” Ilya thought. “He is a witch.”

It suddenly seemed like grandpa Rorekh was looking at him, seeing how he, buried in the wall, lying down and feeling sorry for himself ... Wow, he would have warmed Ilya with a stick for this in the old days ...

And then I remembered: and after all, Dad was in the same trouble. When he, wounded, was brought from Khortitsa. Couldn't move. Rorekh said: another would have died, but dad would have survived. Consider that he was pulled out from behind Kromka. Can you pull someone who can't stretch himself? Teeth, if nothing else ...

So Ilya clenched his teeth and pushed with crutches from the porch ...

So I would have crashed head down, if dad hadn’t picked it up, straightened it out. The walkers hit the ground, creaked, but did not break. Ilya groaned too. Teeth. Because the pain ripped through my back - like in the worst of times. Ilya barely restrained his cry, he shrank all over ... Well, how can he not let go now?

Let go.

Dad also breathed a sigh of relief: he guessed that he felt better.

- Why are you so careless, boy? You have to take the weight on your hands, got it? And exercise your back so that the strength returns. You will need a lot of power now. In the arms, in the back, in the stomach, to replace your legs.

“I will, dad,” Ilya promised. - I'll exercise. Learn how.

“Yes, I’ll teach you,” Sergei Ivanovich grumbled, trying not to show how everything inside rejoices: he pulled the guy out of depression. And it wasn't hard either. Only show the goal to such a person - he will trample, you will not stop.

- Come on, don't stop. You will freeze out of habit.

And that's right. Ilya is in one shirt, and summer is long over. In the old days, Sergei Ivanovich would not have bothered: the hardening of the mushrooms is at the highest level. But today there is no such certainty. The boy is weakened.

Didn't have to repeat it twice. Ilya pushed and jumped around the yard. Awkward, but energetic.

They gave way to him, but they did not try to help. Someone greeted, Ilya answered without hesitation.

Duharev walked behind. Ilya did not see him, but he knew: here. If necessary, help, support. If needed.

Inside is a bustle too. The smell is so familiar, even dizzy. AND…

- Pigeon! Ilya pressed his cheek. - Pigeon…

How could he forget about a friend?

"He's fine," his father said softly behind him.

Ilya himself saw that the stallion was healthy, strong and well-groomed. It was Ilya who forgot about him, but his father did not. He doesn't forget anything, dad.

Tears welled up in my eyes. No, he won't give up. He will not dishonor his kind. Never.

“My poor man,” thought Sergei Dukharev, looking at his son embracing a horse that he would never ride. Although…

Why - never? You can also come up with something here. The same frame instead of a saddle ... It is not possible - it is necessary!

“Let's go, Ilya,” he said, placing his hand on Ilya's bent back. - Let's get down to business. Stop lying around like a dead worm. It's time to get strong again.

It was not difficult to show the carpenters exactly what was required. But to come up with a complete training complex - yes. Although, for a start, Sergey Ivanovich limited himself to several crossbars for pull-ups and push-ups and a kind of barbell for the bench press. Ilya could do all the exercises without getting out of bed. Also - a belt to fasten across the hips: pump the press and back. So far enough. On the rest, it will be necessary to consult with Slada: it would not hurt.

We collected everything for the evening. Dukharev personally showed how to pull himself up, pump the press, how to do push-ups on the uneven bars fixed in the corner. Ilya was supposed to be brought to the bars, but this is at first. Then Ilya had to "approach" them himself. With a walker, of course. Yarosh was appointed responsible for physiotherapy exercises. If he himself is busy, he will find an intelligent lackey.

Separately, Duharev talked to the girl who gave Ilya a massage and helped in all sorts of natural needs. He especially ordered to make sure that there were no abrasions and abrasions on the paralyzed parts of the body. However, she would have managed without instructions from Sergei Ivanovich. Slada instructed her in the most detailed manner and supplied her with all the necessary pharmacology.

Chapter 2

Morov. Ilya Godun, legless warrior

Pain is good. Mother said: “If it hurts downstairs - put a candle to God, - it is he who returns your legs.”

It wasn't the legs that hurt. There were still no legs - only one visibility. Shoulders, back, stomach hurt. Pain is gratifying. "Pain is the warrior's companion, Godong!" So Rorech said. And thrashed Ilya mercilessly. Now Ilya was in pain just like in the old days. It hurt right. Good pain. She is good. And before the pain was evil. Worse than torture.

Pain - poppy decoction - oblivion - pain - decoction ...

Then just pain - without saving oblivion. So Mother Sladislav decided. "It is forbidden. Get used to it and the poppy will make you weak. Be patient!

Something, but Ilya knew how to endure. It would be for what.

Now it was. Do not disgrace the family!

Ilya took the towel from the girl's hands and wiped his face. Returning, he caught the girl's look: different, not the same as five weeks ago, when Ilya lay in bed, unable to even cope with a small need himself. Another look. So the girls looked at him before, until the fatal arrow that turned the prince's grid into a cripple.

Ilya chuckled. Looks in vain. There is no masculine power in him now.

But still nice.

Ilya put his hands into the belt loops, pulled himself up once or twice ... His legs still hung like a dead weight, but everything else was filled with strength again. Real military. Now Ilya can draw a bow, or even sit on a horse ...

No, he can't ride a horse. The rider needs legs no less than the pawn.

Again, a bad thing burst into my heart ... but Ilya drove it away. Did it. Up! Once again - up! To a crunch in the joints, to a good pain in the muscles. And when the exhausted body ceases to obey, it is necessary to force it, to force it. Through good pain, through lethargy, fatigue, weakness. All this Ilya was very good at.

Dad came every week. Praised. Every time I came up with something new. Last time, I adapted the board so that Ilya could slide down it into a walker. Ropes stretched throughout the room. Now Ilya is able to get to the table himself and settle in the chair. And in another chair, which is out of need. Dad also brought chairs: it’s hard for Ilya to sit on the bench now.

Dad tried.

Ilya also tried. He worked from morning till night. Instead of resting, I talked with Kuliba. Polochanin Ilya was given by his father. Said like this:

- Centurion Kulib will be my governor in Morov, for the time being. A faithful man, and there is something to learn from him, and our smerds will not spoil him. Though plowmen, even foresters.

So in the Morovian principality, for the time being, Kuliba was in charge.

But Ilya told about everything. Where someone lives, what villages along the river and in nearby forests, who can pay what kind of tribute. What has been built, what will be built, what else will be built. He praised Batya Kuliba very much. For great generosity. For example, they built an inn at the pier - it has already paid off. And a mill.

Ilya then wrote down from memory. About Morov - in Slovenian writing. About his exercises - twice: in Latin and in Romaic. My father told me to write. Everything you did in a day. What and how much. Arabic numerals. And add a little every day.

He said: you will see for yourself, son, how strength grows.

Ilya saw. Now he can pull up a hundred times without a break. And in order to go beyond the limit of strength, you have to cling a pood load. With the load, too, dad came up with. And all the exercises that Ilya is doing now are also him. And push, and pull up, and bend the body in all directions, pull, work.

Well, enough. Ilya took up the crossbar in last time, intercepted, hovered over the board and slowly slid right into the walker. Straightened the straps, tightened the belt. Soon Ilya will be able to do it without a board. The main thing here is to pull the body up with one hand, and fill the legs into the belt loops with the other. Ilya is already doing one or two pull-ups on one arm. So soon he will be able to get into the walker himself. Ilya called the girl - put on fur coats. I got to the table, wrote down what was done. The girl, meanwhile, gathered food. Cottage cheese with nuts, greens, egg whites. With squirrels - this is dad ordered. She and her mother determined all the meals for each day. Ilya ate what was ordered. And beyond that. Belly demanded.

Help get undressed! Ilya ordered the girl.

Remaining in only the lower ports, Ilya moved into the yard. I hooked it with a hook attached to a crutch, front door, got out on the porch. Having tried on, he pushed harder and waved down, bypassing the stairs. He fell to the ground not with a walker, but on crutches. Springed famously, as if he had come to his feet. Dad is right when he said: Ilya's hands should be instead of legs. Should and will.

- Prince!

Yarosh. Morovsky elder. And also - the military leader of the local smerds. Ilya Yarosha beat in the sacred grove. Now Yarosh serves him.

He asked, as usual:

"You won't catch a cold, prince?"

- Nothing! Water it!

A girl-servant could also, but she will water from a bucket, and Yarosh is powerful. A five-bucket tub is not a burden for him.

The icy water burned the heated body.

Good. Dad himself so pours himself every morning and taught his sons. Another old habit is back. Love!

Ilya looked around. In the backyard, life was in full swing. Artel of craftsmen sent by the father from Kyiv hung new gates on iron hinges. The gate is also from Kyiv. Real, against the siege.

“There will be not a village in Morov, but a prison,” said Batya to Ilya. “And you should be here – governor.”

Ilya Bate did not believe then. Voivode - without legs. Laughter!

Maybe you didn't believe it?

The girl jumped up and began to wipe the water. She is chilly even in a woolen dress, in a fur sleeveless jacket, but he is naked and wet. If she catches a cold, she has to answer to Princess Sladislava.

- Is Kuliba here? Ilya asked.

“There is none,” Yarosh reported. - Since yesterday. As he left, he did not return.

Yarosh Kulibu not only did not love him - he was jealous of him. He believed that he himself should be in charge here. Didn't argue, but... Didn't approve. Kuliba saw discontent, but did not take it into his head. Kuliba - Griden, and not just Griden - drove a hundred. And Yarosh, though ex-chief military Radimichsky, but still stinks. Although he is large in body and strong in strength, Kulibe is not a rival.

Ilya remembered how he himself once met with Yarosh in a sacred grove.

Then Ilya Radimichi was taken by surprise. Maybe it was in the sacred grove, or maybe the sorcerer Radimichi Snovid did his best. Ilya did not dare to fight openly with the Radimichi. He was not afraid for himself - for his horse, Dove. Suddenly, the foresters will beat him with arrows, when they stand up for the owner? And then he suddenly remembered, but to the point, how foresters resolve disputes. Brother Artyom told how they, even under Svyatoslav Igorevich, tortured 1
torment ( obsolete) - subjugate, conquer.

Vyatichi. According to ancient pagan law. By right, if the tribes argued among themselves, then so as not to shed blood for nothing, they put up unarmed strongman fighters. Whoever wins, the land will be.

So Ilya challenged the Radimichi ancient custom. And the main one between them, Dream-Sorcerer, accepted the challenge. And put up against Ilya Yarosh.

- I will! - the forester promised Ilya right off the bat.

Mighty Yarosh. The body is great. Almost with the father, prince-voivode Sergei, growth. But dad is a Viking. And his strength is military, great. You look at him and you see all his glory. As if corny 2
Korzno ( old) - a rich cloak, usually princely.

He opened it behind the prince-voivode. Korzno, woven from perun lightning. And Yarosh - who? The mortal hunter. His face is shaggy, he is fairly strong. However, it turned out to be fast - surprisingly. Ilya against him is like a sable against a wolverine. But this is the size. But in fact, Ilya is a warrior. And the earth itself raises the warrior.

“You,” Ilya said to the shaggy forest man, “wanted to crush me. And he himself has grown into the ground, like an oak tree. Are you waiting for the acorns to be born?

- Wait, you will squeak in a different way! - the cosmic man promised.

The Radimich foresters have it like: the leader - he does not rule. Elders and Volokhi rule. The leader is at war. Yarosh was good. For death. No wonder he was chosen as leader.

Mighty Yarosh, fast, dangerous...

But genuine military training I failed. And the Vikings taught Ilya. And nerds. And Khuzars. Yarosh's hand is much stronger than Ilya's was, but Ilya still beat. Since childhood, he had to fight with those who were twice as large. He broke Yarosh's nose, ruined his leg, and then completely filled it up to the ground. He could have killed him - flattened his Adam's apple with his heel, but he regretted it.

“My strength has taken,” Ilya said to the defeated and removed his foot from Yaroshev’s throat.

The giant got up. He looked fiercely, from top to bottom ...

“Maybe I didn’t break his Adam’s apple in vain? Ilya got worried. “Suddenly it’s supposed to fight to the death here?”

And just in case, he prepared to dodge if the forester tried to grab him ...

Didn't try. Prokosolapil to his sorcerer, Snovid, who Yarosh blessed for battle ...

And Elijah was left alone in the sacred grove.

Radimichi left. However, the right to the land of Morov now was - Ilya. Or rather, paternal, because he, like Yarosh, was not the eldest in the family, but an exposed fighter. Well, if Dad had been in the place of Ilya, the outcome of the fight would not have changed. Let dad be gray-haired and wounded, but Yarosh would have been beaten. Dad probably wouldn't mess around. Knocked down with one blow. Powerful because. What about Ilya? Ilya was the weakest of the three sons of the prince-governor. And there is. And so it will remain...

Ilya frowned, driving gloomy thoughts.

What was, is what remains. Yarosh observes the law and serves the winner honestly. Kulib under Prince Morovsky - instead of the governor. And Yarosh is an elder. And it is under his supervision that Morov is now growing from an ordinary village into a strong town with a reliable fortress and its own church on a high hill. It is clear that they are building not the local smerds, but the craftsmen sent by the father, but Yarosh also has an important task: to give the architects everything that the Radimich land can give. And Yarosh copes with this task. And Morov's smerds are also under him. And everything that happens in Morov, Yarosh also knows. And Ilya is faithful, although now Ilya Yarosh cannot be defeated by any means. No legs.

- Yarosh, are there any guests in the inn?

“Yes,” the big Radimich nodded. – Trading. Germans. They don’t speak our language, the interpreter is with them. Will you go and have a look, prince?

- I'll go. I'll just get dressed.

Ilya rode in a special cart. Ilya invented it himself: with comfortable handles, so that he can climb inside from the walker. Put a pillow on it - and in general it's good to sit. Ilya could have handled the horse himself, but the prince could not do it. There is a slave for this.

From the prison to the pier - four hundred steps. In the old days, Ilya would have run in an instant, not out of breath. Now I did not exercise my legs - my arms. While driving, he bent the shaft of a simple hunting bow over his back.

The Desna is an important river. Shipping. Therefore, the pier in Morov is beautiful and comfortable. The wood on the four new berths is still light - a pier has recently been set up. And the piers are good. Tall, wide. With secure poles for attaching the ends. Such even large sea ​​ships and get up comfortably, and loading and unloading is a nice thing. There are people for this business in Morov. They will accept it, pull it up, put bags of wool on it, so that the side to the pier gently rises. It is necessary - they will accept the cargo and take it to the warehouse, under guard, so that the trading guests do not worry about safety and rest at their pleasure. It needs to be repaired. Though here, at the pier, even on a dry shore. And there is good, dry wood, and fabrics for sails.

All this dad came up with and invested a lot of money. But the benefits are already visible. Even Ilya. Trade guests pay for any work without stint. Copper - for loaders, silver - for repairs. And for the food-drink in the courtyard of the inmate - and it’s completely generous. Merchants love to have fun. Their life is like this. Not everyone returns home, but if he does return, then without fail with great profit. So the merchant thinks: if he is still alive and with money, then live happily.

They lived. They ate, they drank, they sang songs. They lay around with the girls to their heart's content, but they didn't shy away from clever conversations either. And Ilya loved smart conversations. He, now attached to Morov, was very interested in what big world happening.

Guests now in Morov did not come from the poor.

At the pier there are large piers, five in number. And two knorr ships of Nurman work. One must think that the trading guests came to them.

The inn above the pier is good. Spacious, on two floors, with a high pylon. Behind the tyn are warehouses, a stable. If, for example, some merchant wants to take a walk on horseback, please. And if he wishes to go further not by water, but by land, it is also easy. There are horses and carts.

My father also has his own horses. And for work needs, and for the military. If you want, don't go anywhere. Here, give the goods for a fair price. Or buy what you like.