Whitefire by Fern Michaels

compound a guard argued vehemently with a Cossack youth. “Someone has to be alert. What you’re doing is a disgrace to the village. All of you are so drunk you can barely stand. You’re a disgrace to our forefathers.”
    â€œBah, you talk like an old woman. This is a night for pleasure and celebrating. All the wagons are loaded, the horses have been readied for hours, and the houses will soon be closed for the winter. If the hetman says we can drink, then we can drink,” the young man said drunkenly as he brought a bottle to his lips and drank greedily. “The Kat said to bring you this jug, but since you don’t want it, I’ll drink it myself.” The youth laughed raucously as he toppled from the wall, alcohol spilling over his face.
    The guard looked at him and felt only disgust. One of the horses whickered, and his head jerked upright. He knew that sound, he had been hearing it for hours. It didn’t come from an animal, at least not one with four legs. Should he leave his post and report what he thought he knew? And to whom? he asked himself. The Kat was in no condition to hear what he said, let alone make a decision. One other guard stood at his post on the far side of the compound. Should he venture over there and ask him if he, too, had heard the noise and if he realized what it meant? An ominous feeling crept up his spine. No matter what, a Cossack never left his post. There it was again. The soft whicker and then an even softer one in reply. He peered into the velvety darkness and could see nothing. He looked down at the prone young Cossack and cursed long and loud.
    A wild whoop was heard; the guard’s hand automatically came up with his sword outstretched in front of him. He was cut down from behind before he could move. Everywhere wild shouts and curses filled the air as men struggled and fought. The Don Cossacks, in their drunken condition, were no match for the trim, hard-fighting Tereks with only one thought in mind: the Cosars!
    Katlof reeled drunkenly toward the fire, where his sword rested among the others. His hand reached for his saber; just as his fingers closed over the hilt, he felt a blade strike him across the back between his shoulders. He dropped to his knees. As he cried out to his people, “Run! Hide!” blood gushed from his mouth.
    Women and children fell beneath the savage onslaught, the Tereks merciless in their attack. Katlof watched in horror as a small child crawled away from his dead mother’s arms toward the fire. He reached out a hand as a wild-eyed Terek scooped up the child and tossed him into the roaring inferno. He died with the child’s agonized screams ringing in his ears. It was over in a matter of moments.
    Gregory stood near the fire on top of one of the loaded wagons, his arm held high above his head in a show of victory. A wild cry rang out as the men reached to pull their leader to the ground. “Ready the horses and burn these wagons after you confiscate the supplies. We can use them ourselves. And don’t forget the vodka, we’ll do our own celebrating when we return to camp. We did what no Russian has been able to do!” he shouted arrogantly. “We now own the Cosars. Czar Ivan will be proud of us!” A lusty shout of approval rang through the blood-soaked night.
    â€œAre they all dead?” one of Gregory’s men shouted.
    â€œEvery last bitch and bastard!” came a hoarse shout in reply.
    Gregory smiled to himself as the moon slid behind its hiding place, storm clouds moving on. With a wicked flourish of his sword and a wild cry of victory, Gregory spurred the horse beneath him, his men thundering behind him as they rode victoriously from Volin.
    When Gregory Bohacky turned his head, those mounted behind glimpsed his heavily greased mustache. No one ever joked about the corkscrew curl at each end, as Gregory’s mustache was his manhood, his pride and joy. Many words were spoken