Discover the epic tale of “Ilya Muromets: At the Heroic Outpost,” a story of vigilance, courage, and the unyielding strength of Russia’s greatest hero. For three years, Ilya and his fellow bogatyrs guard the outpost near Kiev, letting no enemy pass—but when a foreign warrior slips by unnoticed, the heroes must decide who will ride in pursuit. After Dobrynya is terrified by the enemy’s might, the old ataman Ilya Muromets takes up the challenge himself, facing a boaster who tosses a ninety-pood mace like a toy. In a desperate battle, Ilya falls beneath his foe—but draws strength from the Russian earth, throws the enemy sky-high, and stands victorious. Yet, in a surprising act of mercy, Ilya spares the foreigner and sends him away with a warning. This classic bylina celebrates the wisdom, humility, and unmatched courage of the legendary hero. Perfect for fans of Slavic folklore, epic battles, and tales of honor and mercy, this beautifully translated story will captivate readers of all ages.
Beneath the city of Kiev, in the wide Tsitsar Steppe, stood a heroic outpost. The ataman of the outpost was the old Ilya Muromets; his deputy was Dobrynya Nikitich; and the esaul was Alyosha Popovich. Their warriors were brave and true: Grishka the Boyar’s Son, Vasily Dolgopoly, and many others—all good men.
For three years, the bogatyrs stood guard at the outpost, letting no one—on foot or on horseback—pass through to Kiev. Not even an animal could slip by; not even a bird could fly past.
Once, an ermine ran past the outpost—and left its coat behind. A falcon flew by—and dropped a feather.
But one day, at an ill-fated hour, the guards scattered: Alyosha rode to Kiev, Dobrynya went hunting, and Ilya Muromets fell asleep in his white tent.
Dobrynya was returning from the hunt when he saw something strange in the field, behind the outpost, closer to Kiev: a horse’s hoofprint—and not a small one, but as large as half a stove. Dobrynya examined the track:
“This is the track of a bogatyr’s horse. A bogatyr’s horse, but not Russian: a mighty warrior from the Khazar land rode past our outpost—their horseshoes are different.”
He galloped back to the outpost, gathered his comrades, and cried:
“What have we done? What kind of outpost are we if a foreign bogatyr rode right past us? How did we not see him, brothers? We must ride after him, before he brings trouble to Rus’!”
The bogatyrs began to debate who should ride after the foreign hero. They thought of sending Vasily Dolgopoly, but Ilya forbade it:
“Vasily’s coat-tails are too long. They drag on the ground and tangle. In battle, he will trip and die for nothing.”
They thought of sending Grishka the Boyar’s Son. Ilya said:
“Not good, my friends. Grishka is of boyar blood—and boyars are boastful. He will boast in battle and perish for nothing.”
They thought of sending Alyosha Popovich. Ilya shook his head:
“Let this be said without offense: Alyosha is of priestly blood, and priestly eyes are envious, priestly hands are grasping. If he sees silver and gold on the foreigner, he will grow envious and die for nothing. Better send Dobrynya Nikitich.”
So it was decided: Dobrynya would ride, defeat the foreigner, cut off his head, and bring it back to the outpost.
Dobrynya did not shirk his duty. He saddled his horse, took his mace, girded his sharp saber, seized his silk whip, and rode to Sorochinskaya Mountain. He peered through his silver spyglass—something dark was moving in the field. He spurred his horse straight at the bogatyr and shouted:
“Why did you ride past our outpost without bowing to our ataman, Ilya Muromets, and without paying tribute to our esaul, Alyosha Popovich?!”
The bogatyr heard him, turned his horse, and charged. The earth shook beneath his gallop; water splashed from rivers and lakes; Dobrynya’s horse fell to its knees. Dobrynya grew terrified, turned his horse, and fled back to the outpost. He returned half-dead with fear and told his comrades everything.
“It seems I, the old man, must ride out myself, since even Dobrynya could not prevail,” said Ilya Muromets.
He armed himself, saddled his shaggy Burushka, and rode to Sorochinskaya Mountain. He peered through his heroic fist and saw the foreigner amusing himself—tossing an iron mace weighing ninety poods into the air, catching it with one hand, and twirling it like a feather.
Ilya was astonished and grew thoughtful. He embraced his shaggy Burushka:
“Faithful Burushka, serve me with truth and loyalty—so that this foreigner does not cut off my head!”
Burushka neighed and charged at the boaster.
Ilya rode up and shouted:
“Hey, you thief, you braggart! Why do you boast?! Why did you pass our outpost without paying tribute to our esaul, without bowing to me, the ataman?!”
The boaster heard him, turned his horse, and charged at Ilya. The earth shuddered beneath him; rivers and lakes splashed. But Ilya was not afraid. Burushka stood rooted; Ilya did not stir in his saddle.
The bogatyrs met and struck with their maces—the handles broke off, but neither was wounded. They struck with their sabers—the blades shattered, but both were unharmed. They thrust with their sharp spears—they broke at the heads.
“It seems we must fight hand-to-hand!”
They dismounted and grappled chest to chest. They fought all day until evening; from evening until midnight; from midnight until the bright dawn—neither could gain the upper hand.
Suddenly, Ilya swung his right hand, slipped with his left foot, and fell to the damp earth. The boaster leaped upon him, sat on his chest, drew a sharp knife, and mocked him:
“You are an old man—why did you come to fight? Are there no other bogatyrs in Rus’? You should be resting. You should build yourself a pine hut, beg for alms, and live out your days until death comes.”
The boaster mocked him—but Ilya drew strength from the Russian earth. His strength doubled. He leaped up and threw the boaster into the air—higher than the standing forest, higher than the walking clouds. The boaster fell and sank into the earth up to his waist.
Ilya said to him:
“You are a fine bogatyr! I will let you go to all four corners—but ride away from Rus’ and do not pass our outpost again without bowing to the ataman and paying tribute. Do not wander through Rus’ as a boaster.”
And Ilya did not cut off his head.
He returned to the outpost and said to his brothers:
“Well, my dear brothers, I have ridden the fields for thirty years, fought bogatyrs, and tested my strength—but I have never seen such a bogatyr as this!”