The feast at Prince Vladimir’s court was in full swing—or so it seemed. The tables groaned under the weight of roasted swans and golden mead, but the guests sat only half-drunk, and the celebration lacked its usual fire. One man alone paced the great hall with a furrowed brow: Prince Vladimir of Kiev.
He stopped mid-stride and addressed his boyars:
“I have set aside my grief for my beloved niece, Zabava Putyatishna—but now a new misfortune has fallen upon us. Khan Bakhtiyar Bakhtiyarovich demands twelve years of back tribute. He threatens war if we do not pay. I must send envoys to his court—to deliver twelve swans, twelve falcons, a letter of submission, and the tribute itself. But whom shall I send?”
The hall fell silent. The great boyars hid behind the middling; the middling hid behind the lesser; and the lesser closed their mouths entirely.
Then a trusted boyar rose:
“Allow me to speak, Prince.”
“Speak,” said Vladimir.
“To ride to the Khan’s land is no small service. There is none better to send than Dobrynya Nikitich and Vasily Kazimirovich, with Ivan Dubrovich as their aide. They know the ways of envoys and how to speak with khans.”
Vladimir nodded. He filled three goblets with green wine—no small measures, but a pail and a half each—and tempered them with aged meads. The first he offered to Dobrynya Nikitich, the second to Vasily Kazimirovich, and the third to Ivan Dubrovich. The three heroes rose to their swift feet, took the goblets in one hand, drained them in a single breath, and bowed low to the Prince.
“Your service shall be done,” they declared. “We will ride to the Khan’s land, deliver your letter, the twelve swans, the twelve falcons, and the twelve years of tribute to Bakhtiyar Bakhtiyarovich.”
The Prince gave them the letter of submission and ordered the gifts prepared: twelve swans, twelve falcons, a chest of pure silver, a chest of red gold, and a chest of rolled pearls—the full tribute for twelve years.
The envoys mounted their good horses and rode for the Khan’s domain. They rode by day beneath the red sun and by night beneath the bright moon. Day after day passed like falling rain; week after week like a flowing river; and the brave warriors pressed ever onward.
At last, they arrived in the Khan’s land and rode into the wide courtyard of Bakhtiyar Bakhtiyarovich. They dismounted. Young Dobrynya Nikitich kicked open the doors with his heel, and they entered the Khan’s white-stone palace. There they made the sign of the cross as was written and bowed as was learned—low to all four corners, and lower still to the Khan himself.
The Khan surveyed them with narrowed eyes:
“Where do you hail from, stout young men? From what cities? Of what lineage? What are your names?”
The envoys answered:
“We come from the city of Kiev, from the glorious Prince Vladimir. We have brought you the tribute for twelve years.”
They presented the Khan with the letter of submission, the twelve swans, the twelve falcons, the chest of pure silver, the chest of red gold, and the chest of rolled pearls. The Khan seated them at his oak table, feasted them, and plied them with drink. Then he began to question them:
“On holy Rus’, does Prince Vladimir have any man who plays chess—who plays with gilded gaming pieces? Who plays at the noble game of tables?”
Dobrynya Nikitich answered:
“I can play chess with you, Khan—the game of golden tables.”
They brought out the chessboard, and Dobrynya and the Khan began to move from square to square. Dobrynya moved once. He moved twice. On his third move, he closed the Khan’s path.
The Khan exclaimed:
“Ah, you are skilled at this game! Everyone I have played before, I have beaten. I wager two chests of pure silver, two chests of red gold, and two chests of rolled pearls on the next game.”
Dobrynya replied:
“I am on a journey, Khan. I carry no great treasury—no pure silver, no red gold, no rolled pearls. I can only stake my wild head as a wager.”
The Khan moved once—he did not reach his goal. He moved twice—he overstepped. On his third move, Dobrynya closed his path again and won the Khan’s wager: two chests of pure silver, two chests of red gold, and two chests of rolled pearls.
The Khan grew hot with frustration. He set a greater wager: he would pay tribute to Prince Vladimir for twelve and a half years. Dobrynya won a third time. The Khan’s loss was immense—and so was his pride.
He spoke again:
“Glorious bogatyrs, envoys of Vladimir! Which of you is skilled with the bow—to send a red-hot arrow along the edge of a knife, splitting it in two, and have both halves strike a silver ring, equal in weight?”
Twelve stout warriors brought the Khan’s finest bow.
Dobrynya took the powerful bow and fitted an arrow. He drew the string—and it snapped like rotten thread. The bow cracked and fell apart.
“A poor bow, Khan—worthless,” said Dobrynya.
He turned to Ivan Dubrovich:
“Go, my sworn brother, to the courtyard. Bring my traveling bow, which hangs at my right stirrup.”
Ivan fetched the bow. To it were attached ringing gusli—not for beauty, but for the hero’s amusement. As Ivan carried the bow into the hall, he plucked the strings, and the sweet music filled the air. The Saracens listened in wonder—they had never heard such a marvel.
Dobrynya took his powerful bow, stood before the silver ring, and shot three times. Each arrow flew along the knife’s edge, split in two, and struck the ring perfectly.
Then Bakhtiyar took his turn. His first shot fell short; his second overshot; his third missed the ring entirely.
The Khan’s displeasure grew dark. His mind turned to treachery—he would destroy the Kiev envoys. But he spoke with false sweetness:
“Would any of you, glorious bogatyrs, care to wrestle for sport with our champions—to test your strength?”
Before Vasily or Ivan could answer, young Dobrynya threw off his cloak, rolled his mighty shoulders, and strode into the courtyard. There he was met by a terrifying champion—tall as an ancient oak, with a slanting fathom between his shoulders, a head like a brewing vat, and a horde of fighters behind him.
The wrestlers pressed upon Dobrynya, shoving and pushing. He shoved them back, kicked them away, and hurled them aside. The great champion seized him by his white hands—but their struggle was brief. Dobrynya was too strong, too quick. He threw the giant to the damp earth with such force that the ground shuddered.
The fighters froze in terror—then rushed him all at once. The wrestling turned to a brawl. With shouts and weapons, they fell upon Dobrynya.
But Dobrynya was unarmed. He scattered the first hundred; he drove back the next. When a thousand pressed upon him, he seized the axle of a cart and began to lay about him with terrible fury. Ivan Dubrovich burst from the palace to his aid, and together they cut through the enemy like scythes through wheat. Where the heroes passed, a street appeared; where they turned, an alley opened. The foes lay piled like cordwood.
The Khan’s hands trembled as he watched the slaughter. He crawled out to the courtyard and began to beg:
“Glorious Russian bogatyrs! Spare my fighters—do not destroy them all! I will give Prince Vladimir a letter of submission. I will command my sons and grandsons never to war with the Russians again. And I will pay tribute to the end of time!”
He invited the envoys back to his white-stone palace, where he plied them with sweet dishes and honeyed drinks. Then he wrote a letter of submission to Prince Vladimir: forever and ever, his people would not march against Rus’, would not fight the Russians, and would pay tribute for all eternity.
He loaded a wagon with pure silver, another with red gold, and a third with rolled pearls. He sent twelve swans and twelve falcons as gifts to Vladimir. With great honor, he escorted the envoys out, bowed low to them in the courtyard, and watched them ride away.
Dobrynya Nikitich, Vasily Kazimirovich, and Ivan Dubrovich mounted their good horses and rode from the Khan’s court, with three wagons of treasure following behind.
Day after day like falling rain, week after week like a flowing river—they pressed ever onward. When their swift horses tired and the heroes wearied, they set up their white-linen tents, fed their steeds, rested, ate and drank, and continued their journey. They rode across wide fields, forded swift rivers, and at last arrived at the golden city of Kiev.
They rode into the Prince’s spacious courtyard, dismounted, and entered the palace. They made the sign of the cross and bowed low—to all four corners, and deeper still to Prince Vladimir and his Princess.
“O Prince Vladimir of Kiev,” they announced, “we have been to the Khan’s domain. We have done your service. Khan Bakhtiyar bids you greetings.” And they presented the Prince with the letter of submission.
Prince Vladimir sat on his oak bench and read the letter. Then he leaped to his swift feet, paced the hall, stroked his golden curls, and spoke with radiant joy:
“Ah, glorious Russian bogatyrs! The Khan asks for peace forever and ever. He promises to pay tribute for all time. How splendidly you have fulfilled my mission!”
Then Dobrynya, Vasily, and Ivan presented the Khan’s gifts: twelve swans, twelve falcons, and the great tribute—a wagon of pure silver, a wagon of red gold, and a wagon of rolled pearls.
In his joy, Prince Vladimir ordered a feast of honor—a celebration in praise of Dobrynya Nikitich, Vasily Kazimirovich, and Ivan Dubrovich.
And from that day forward, songs were sung of Dobrynya’s courage, wisdom, and loyalty—not only as a warrior, but as the greatest envoy the Russian land had ever known.