Prince Trubetskoy - 2

What were the highbrow Elders thinking about when they were working on the long-term mission that I must fulfill here, starting with the fatal year 1812 for Russia? That I will pester the nearest cavalry guard with the words: “I need your horse and cuirass”? And will I continue to travel around Europe with a stony face, performing feats in the name of the lofty plan of those who had the opportunity to develop this dizzying operation and send me here? Good idea. But I am an error, an absurd error in their exact calculations; by some absurd accident I did not become a soulless function and remain human. However, maybe it just seems to me. It is painful, sometimes unbearably painful, to do objective good, regardless of the opinions and desires of others. It turns out to be some kind of evil good. Sometimes it’s creepy even for me.

But I agreed. Who cares why, what made me take this step. Forced. And here I am, there is no return and there cannot be. But the pain remains, pulling, shaking the veins on the fist, forcing you to move further and further, decorating the road with the corpses of the enemy. Of course, for the sake of a high goal. How could it be otherwise?!

But now it’s different. For there is that very notorious mission and the one for whom it is worth living in this world. With its objective laws and traditional lawlessness; with his saints and demons in human form. And she is in danger. A terrible danger, which the highbrow creators of the Great Design have absolutely nothing to do with. This means that today I don’t care about them either.

I am no longer there, there is a living legend, a terrible legend about the ruthless “Prince Trubetskoy”, with which French mothers will frighten overly frisky children for a long time. But why does it hurt so much?! Is this really an urgent need to remain human? Leave it alone! The soul is an incorporeal substance, which means it cannot get sick! Shouldn't. Horses gallop! To hell with suffering! Time doesn't wait!

“Forward, Prince Trubetskoy! Forward!"

I peer into the illuminated distant windows; not so long ago it was quiet and cozy behind them. Quite recently.

Are they angry? - I ask.

Well, then God himself commanded. We're working!

The barely fledged chicks of Petrov’s nest scattered to their estates, grandfather’s or bestowed by the formidable emperor. They tried their best to embody the image of that very nest in their family estates. And if it works out, then surpass it. Of course, none of them even thought of copying the Dutch refuge of the Russian “carpenter Mikhailov,” and for some reason the Emperor’s associates were in no hurry to even build Peter’s house on the banks of the Neva. The Peterhof Palace served as a role model. Of course, not every chick could compete in luxury with the sovereign, but everyone wanted to feel like a micro-emperor in the estate and made every effort to achieve this. And although the poetic name “noble nests” came into common speech through the efforts of Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev much later, this house with the whitewashed columns of a pseudo-antique portico, with a wide staircase leading to the entrance, and the outstretched wings of dark outbuildings flaunting among a neglected English park, it was quite possible I would call it such a nest. True, quite neglected. But here, no matter how hard you try, you can’t break the butt with a whip - war is no time for beauty.

Perhaps in May, when greenery envelops the manor’s house and pleases the eye of the observer, it seemed much more attractive, and if music was playing there, servants were bustling around and the owner in a dressing gown came out onto the porch to admire the grounds, this corner of central Russia could be considered truly heavenly.

The novel “Prince Trubetskoy” is an excellent choice for lovers of alternative history. Its author, Roman Zlotnikov, remains true to his style and again takes the reader to one of the most striking episodes in world history. This time the writer tells his version of the great Napoleon’s attack on Moscow in 1812. Now everyone who is at least a little familiar with the past from the school curriculum knows that the French were unable to capture Russia. And then Bonaparte and his allies were fully confident that the capital of the ancient state would easily fall at their feet.

Roman Zlotnikov placed his main character, Prince Trubetskoy, on the path of the army of the French emperor. He leads the partisan forces of the Russian people and leads them to fight the imperial troops. And the fantastic thing about all this is that Trubetskoy is not just a Russian prince, but also a contemporary of the reader. He knows how the war with Napoleon ended, how to defeat the formidable Bonaparte, and what military tactics are best used in this fight. Whether it was really the prince who changed the course of history, and how he managed to repel a formidable enemy - can only be found out by reading the novel “Prince Trubetskoy” to the end.

Both adults and children will enjoy reading the book. It is written in simple language, easily, without a clutter of historical facts and details. The main character of the novel “Prince Trubetskoy” is a very ambiguous personality. His character mixed both the aristocratic pride of Russian princes and a slight touch of cynicism, without which it is difficult to imagine a modern person. He is different - sometimes a hero, sometimes a coward, sometimes a good-natured person, sometimes a notorious scoundrel. However, Trubetskoy sincerely loves his country and wants to help it. Therefore, it is quite difficult to guess what he will do in this or that situation, but that makes it all the more interesting to read the work. What fate has Roman Zlotnikov prepared for his prince? Will he return to the 21st century? Will he be wounded on the battlefield? Will he remain alive at the beginning of the 19th century, enjoying the laurels of the winner? It will be possible to find out about Trubetskoy’s fate only after reading the book to the last pages.

Like any work written with taste, Roman Zlotnik’s book captivates and makes you empathize. Realistic pictures of war, the fate of people who have to fight for themselves and their country - all this will not leave readers indifferent. “Prince Trubetskoy” opens a series of works by Roman Zlotnikov under the same name. It is continued by a book called “The Emperor’s Personal Enemy,” which tells about the further adventures of the restless prince. It will be a pleasure to read it after the first novel about Trubetskoy.

On our literary website you can download the book “Prince Trubetskoy” by Roman Zlotnikov for free in formats suitable for different devices - epub, fb2, txt, rtf. Do you like to read books and always keep up with new releases? We have a large selection of books of various genres: classics, modern fiction, psychological literature and children's publications. In addition, we offer interesting and educational articles for aspiring 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 for themselves.

The Emperor's Personal Enemy

Prince Trubetskoy – 2

* * *

Prologue

At the command “Rise!” daylight begins. “Rise, Trubetskoy, rise!” There is no time to sit on the mattresses, even if they are thickly covered with laurels - still no. Good for Superman - he put on his swimming trunks over his tights, put his fist forward - and rushed to save his beloved, and at the same time the world. And here, no matter how much you raise your fists, the matter will not move forward.

What were the highbrow Elders thinking about when they were working on the long-term mission that I must fulfill here, starting with the fatal year 1812 for Russia? That I will pester the nearest cavalry guard with the words: “I need your horse and cuirass”? And will I continue to travel around Europe with a stony face, performing feats in the name of the lofty plan of those who had the opportunity to develop this dizzying operation and send me here? Good idea. But I am an error, an absurd error in their exact calculations; by some absurd accident I did not become a soulless function and remain a human being. However, maybe it just seems to me. It is painful, sometimes unbearably painful, to do objective good, regardless of the opinions and desires of others. Some very evil good is coming out. Sometimes it’s creepy even for me.

But I agreed. Who cares why, what made me take this step. Forced. And here I am, there is no return and there cannot be. But the pain remains, pulling, shaking the veins on the fist, forcing you to move further and further, decorating the road with the corpses of the enemy. Of course, for the sake of a high goal. How could it be otherwise?!

But now it’s different. For there is that very notorious mission and the one for whom it is worth living in this world. With its objective laws and traditional lawlessness; with his saints and demons in human form. And she is in danger. A terrible danger, which the highbrow creators of the Great Design have absolutely nothing to do with. This means that today I don’t care about them either.

I am no longer there, there is a living legend, a terrible legend about the ruthless “Prince Trubetskoy”, with which French mothers will frighten overly frisky children for a long time. But why does it hurt so much?! Is this really an urgent need to remain human? Leave it alone! The soul is an incorporeal substance, which means it cannot get sick! Shouldn't. Horses gallop! To hell with suffering! Time doesn't wait!

“Forward, Prince Trubetskoy! Forward!"...

I peer into the illuminated distant windows; not so long ago it was quiet and cozy behind them. Quite recently.

- Are they angry? - I ask.

- They are angry.

- Well, then God himself ordered it. We're working!

Chapter 1

The window glass shattered into a hundred shiny fragments and fell into the courtyard, dotting the already empty, dreary flowerbed with many sharp transparent teeth. Laughter, a shot, someone's scream, the clatter of forged boots and French speech... It has begun!

At the command “Rise!” daylight begins. “Rise, Trubetskoy, rise!” There is no time to sit on the mattresses, even if they are thickly covered with laurels - still no. Good for Superman - he put on his swimming trunks over his tights, put his fist forward - and rushed to save his beloved, and at the same time the world. And here, no matter how much you raise your fists, the matter will not move forward.

What were the highbrow Elders thinking about when they were working on the long-term mission that I must fulfill here, starting with the fatal year 1812 for Russia? That I will pester the nearest cavalry guard with the words: “I need your horse and cuirass”? And will I continue to travel around Europe with a stony face, performing feats in the name of the lofty plan of those who had the opportunity to develop this dizzying operation and send me here? Good idea. But I am an error, an absurd error in their exact calculations; by some absurd accident I did not become a soulless function and remain human. However, maybe it just seems to me. It is painful, sometimes unbearably painful, to do objective good, regardless of the opinions and desires of others. It turns out to be some kind of evil good. Sometimes it’s creepy even for me.

But I agreed. Who cares why, what made me take this step. Forced. And here I am, there is no return and there cannot be. But the pain remains, pulling, shaking the veins on the fist, forcing you to move further and further, decorating the road with the corpses of the enemy. Of course, for the sake of a high goal. How could it be otherwise?!

But now it’s different. For there is that very notorious mission and the one for whom it is worth living in this world. With its objective laws and traditional lawlessness; with his saints and demons in human form. And she is in danger. A terrible danger, which the highbrow creators of the Great Design have absolutely nothing to do with. This means that today I don’t care about them either.

I am no longer there, there is a living legend, a terrible legend about the ruthless “Prince Trubetskoy”, with which French mothers will frighten overly frisky children for a long time. But why does it hurt so much?! Is this really an urgent need to remain human? Leave it alone! The soul is an incorporeal substance, which means it cannot get sick! Shouldn't. Horses gallop! To hell with suffering! Time doesn't wait!

“Forward, Prince Trubetskoy! Forward!"

I peer into the illuminated distant windows; not so long ago it was quiet and cozy behind them. Quite recently.

- Are they angry? - I ask.

- They are angry.

- Well, then God himself ordered it. We're working!

The window glass shattered into a hundred shiny fragments and fell into the courtyard, dotting the already empty, dreary flowerbed with many sharp transparent teeth. Laughter, a shot, someone's scream, the clatter of forged boots and French speech... It has begun!

The barely fledged chicks of Petrov’s nest scattered to their estates, grandfather’s or bestowed by the formidable emperor. They tried their best to embody the image of that very nest in their family estates. And if it works out, then surpass it. Of course, none of them even thought of copying the Dutch refuge of the Russian “carpenter Mikhailov,” and for some reason the Emperor’s associates were in no hurry to even build Peter’s house on the banks of the Neva. The Peterhof Palace served as a role model. Of course, not every chick could compete in luxury with the sovereign, but everyone wanted to feel like a micro-emperor in the estate and made every effort to achieve this. And although the poetic name “noble nests” came into common speech through the efforts of Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev much later, this house with the whitewashed columns of a pseudo-antique portico, with a wide staircase leading to the entrance, and the outstretched wings of dark outbuildings flaunting among a neglected English park, it was quite possible I would call it such a nest. True, quite neglected. But here, no matter how hard you try, you can’t break the butt with a whip - war is no time for beauty.

Perhaps in May, when greenery envelops the manor’s house and pleases the eye of the observer, it seemed much more attractive, and if music was playing there, servants were bustling around and the owner in a dressing gown came out onto the porch to admire the grounds, this corner of central Russia could be considered truly heavenly. However, now that autumn had passed the halfway point, for some reason the house, devoid of its usual life, looked eerie. A sort of skull of a monster unknown to either fairy tales or academic science, multi-eyed, with huge teeth of columns, bleached by merciless time and yet not lifeless, and therefore especially creepy.

In the manor's house they clearly did not skimp on candles. And obviously no one was going to save the firewood until the onset of true frost. Now all the chimneys were smoking thickly, as if the current inhabitants of the estate only wanted to warm up and eat plenty. The clinking of dishes, the popping of popping champagne corks, discordant drunken screams coming from the manor's house inexorably testified that it was inhabited. However, the container of the human mind, inhabited by grave worms, is also inhabited. Who were the creatures that were cheerfully and recklessly destroying someone else's estate? Certainly not by people, otherwise they would not have laid out a line of torn bodies in front of the wide main staircase.

Any resident of the area of ​​any kind and rank could easily identify the unfortunate people: the owner of the estate, his servants. Just recently, they were living their everyday lives, joyfully discussing the news: Moscow had been abandoned by the French, the anti-Christ adversary with already battered hordes was steadily rolling away from their native Fatherland, and our glorious Cossacks and the hussars from the Flying Corps of General Benckendorff were tearing him apart, not letting stop and take a breath. The enemy is pressed from behind by the most glorious Kutuzov and his eagles, Suvorov’s miracle heroes. Wait a little, endure a little - and everything will finally return to normal. And if the Lord is on their side, then, apparently, here, more than two dozen miles north of the old Smolensk road, they will be able to sit quietly away from the military thunderstorm. Why not? So the hussar detachment, which stopped by the estate quite recently, just a couple of days ago, talked about how the Frenchman runs, runs so that his heels sparkle! Father Mikhailo Illarionovich will grab the French adder by the tail and his head against a stone, so that his vile brains will just spit to the side.

The owner of the estate, who himself had served in the past under the banners of the current commander-in-chief and fought with him at Ishmael, only nodded his head with satisfaction and cursed the cruel wound received in the battle with the Turkish cavalry and which forced him to ask for resignation. He then gave a nice treat to the hussars, crossed everyone on the road and begged them to come again and not leave him without news.

That is why today he did not become alarmed and did not order his servants to dismantle the pikes and muskets that had been prepared ahead of time to repel the uninvited enemy. When the lookout, a reasonable precaution at such and such an hour, reported that a detachment of more than fifty horsemen was moving towards the estate, he only ordered an old uniform to be brought and a meal to be prepared. What is there to be afraid of now? They are kicking the French, so it means that they are their brother, maybe partisans, or better yet, foragers. By the way, these are the ones who pay for oats for horses and food in money, and not just thanks. He twirled his mustache, shook off the dust that had lightly dusted the fur of the hussar's coat, and, leaning on his stick, smiling, went out onto the porch to greet the guests.

By the time he crossed the low threshold, the man leading the visiting detachment was already rapidly, without any hesitation, climbing the stairs.

Come out if you are not a coward...

The bandit was confident in himself. He was choking with rage, he understood that he would not leave this farm, that he would remain near this log wall, but he wanted to die in battle. He needed a chance.

Come out! - the bandit shouted, breaking into a squeal. - Coward! Nonentity!

The hut was flaring up, red flames were bursting out of the windows, illuminating the space in front of the house: now the leader of the bandits could see those who had killed his people and were about to take his own life.

I'll kill you! - the leader shouted. - I'll kill you!

“Okay,” said one of those who killed the bandits. - Try.

The leader laughed, throwing back his head and opening his mouth wide. Yes! Yes! This one will pay for everyone, he thought with evil joy. He will die here, even if you have to rip his throat out with your teeth.

Well, come... - The leader bent down and crouched, as if preparing to jump. Or was he actually going to jump on his enemy, knock him down and kill him...

“Okay,” the killer said again. - You can try to kill me. But you have to pay for everything, right?

What do you want? What more do you want from me!

You'll tell me where the rest of you went.

Why do I need this? I'll die anyway...

Shot. The killer subtly quickly raised his left hand with a pistol, the bullet hit a log near the leader’s body. Not near the head, but at the level of the stomach.

You could die with a bullet in your belly. Or you can do it some other way. But quickly. What will you choose?

“I will kill you,” said the bandit.

But before that...

They went to the river. There is a bridge, and behind it a village... I can’t pronounce these barbaric names... Something to do with mosquitoes. There is a monastery there... There is a lot of gold, but there is no one to protect... - The bandit clanked his teeth. - Enough? Now we can...

You didn't lie?

No, of course... I didn’t lie! I told the truth - why should I be the only one to die, and they... No, everything is equal. And death too... And death! - The bandit rushed forward, only three or four steps separated him from the enemy... two jumps...

Die!.. - The saber flew up to the black sky, took off to fall on the enemy’s head...

Shot - a bullet hit the bandit in the stomach and threw him to the ground.

Pain. Wild pain. And disappointment, and resentment... He was deceived... This is impossible... This is unfair...

The killer approached him and bent down.

Will you finish it off?.. - the bandit asked hopefully and in a different tone, with a trembling voice asked: - Finish it off...

The killer shook his head.

Damn you! - the bandit croaked. - Damn you!

The killer shrugged, as if agreeing that a dying person had the right to be cursed.

Who are you? - asked the bandit. - Name... I’ll get you in hell... I’ll get you in hell... I’ll wait...

“Prince Trubetskoy,” the killer said, bending down. - Won't you forget? Prince Trubetskoy.

Rising into the saddle, the prince looked around - the bandit was still alive, kicking his legs and scraping the frozen ground with his fingers.

There was no pity. There was not even a shadow of compassion, not even the kind that makes you give your enemy a quick death. Now the prince wanted one thing.

He wanted to kill.

Then - the smells. Pine forest.