Discover the epic tale of “Ilya Muromets: The First Battle of Ilya Muromets,” a story of courage, compassion, and the birth of a legend. When the young hero Ilya rides toward Kiev, he finds the city of Chernigov besieged by three Tatar princes and their vast armies, while its people await death in a stone cathedral. In a furious charge, Ilya uproots an oak and uses it as a weapon, scattering the enemy host and capturing the princes—only to spare them and send them back with a warning. The grateful Chernigovites offer him wealth and power, but Ilya refuses, declaring that his only duty is to serve Rus’ and defend its people. When they warn him of the fearsome Nightingale the Robber on the straight road, Ilya chooses the dangerous path, refusing to take the coward’s route. This powerful bylina introduces the legendary hero’s first great deed and reveals his unwavering devotion to his homeland. Perfect for fans of Slavic folklore, heroic origin stories, and epic battles, this beautifully translated tale will inspire and captivate readers of all ages.
Ilya struck his horse with his whip. Shaggy Burushka reared and soared, covering a mile and a half in a single bound. Where his hooves struck the earth, a spring of living water burst forth. Ilya cut down a damp oak, built a frame over the spring, and carved these words upon it: “Here rode the Russian bogatyr, the peasant’s son, Ilya Ivanovich.”
To this day, that living spring still flows; to this day, the oak frame still stands. At night, the forest bear comes to drink from the cold spring and gain heroic strength.
Ilya rode on toward Kiev. He took the straight road, past the city of Chernigov. As he approached, he heard a great noise and commotion beneath the walls: thousands of Tatars had surrounded the city. The dust and steam from their horses hung like a fog over the earth, blocking the red sun. A gray hare could not slip between them, nor a bright falcon fly over their host. In Chernigov, there was weeping and wailing; funeral bells tolled. The people had shut themselves in the stone cathedral, praying and awaiting death: three Tatar princes had come, each with forty thousand warriors.
Ilya’s heart blazed with fury. He reined in Burushka, tore a green oak from the earth—roots and stones and all—seized it by the top, and charged at the Tatars. He swung the oak and trampled the enemy with his horse. Where he swung, a street appeared; where he swung again, an alley opened.
He rode up to the three princes, seized them by their yellow curls, and spoke:
“Well, you Tatar princes! Shall I take you captive, brothers, or cut off your wild heads? Take you captive—I have nowhere to put you. I am traveling, not sitting at home. I carry only enough bread for myself, not for hangers-on. Cut off your heads—there is little honor in it for Ilya Muromets. Ride back to your own lands, your own hordes, and spread the word: Holy Rus’ is not empty. There are mighty bogatyrs in Rus’. Let the enemies think on that!”
Then Ilya rode into Chernigov. He entered the stone cathedral, where the people wept and bade farewell to the white world.
“Greetings, good men of Chernigov! Why do you weep and embrace, saying goodbye to the white world?”
“How can we not weep? Three Tatar princes have surrounded Chernigov, each with forty thousand warriors. Our death is upon us.”
“Go to the fortress wall and look out upon the open field—look upon the enemy host.”
The people went to the wall, looked out, and saw the enemy slain and scattered like a field cut down by hail. They bowed low to Ilya, bringing him bread and salt, silver and gold, rich fabrics embroidered with gems.
“Good young man, Russian bogatyr! What clan do you come from? Who is your father, your mother? What is your name? Come to Chernigov as our voivode! We will all obey you, honor you, feed you, and give you drink. You will live in wealth and honor!”
Ilya shook his head:
“Good men of Chernigov, I am from near Murom, from the village of Karacharovo—a simple Russian bogatyr, a peasant’s son. I did not save you for profit. I need no silver or gold. I saved Russian people—young maidens, little children, old mothers. I will not sit as voivode in wealth. My wealth is my heroic strength. My duty is to serve Rus’ and defend it from her enemies.”
The people of Chernigov begged him to stay at least a day, to feast and celebrate. Ilya refused:
“I have no time, good people. All Rus’ groans under her enemies. I must reach the Prince quickly and get to work. Give me some bread and spring water for the road, and show me the straight road to Kiev.”
The Chernigovites grew troubled and sad:
“Ah, Ilya Muromets, the straight road to Kiev has been overgrown with grass for thirty years. No one has ridden it all that time…”
“What is the matter?”
“The Nightingale the Robber, son of Rakhmanovich, has made his lair by the Smorodina River. He sits in three oak trees, on nine branches. When he whistles like a nightingale and roars like a beast, the forests bend to the earth, the flowers fall, the grass withers—and people and horses drop dead. Take the roundabout road, Ilya. The straight road is three hundred versts to Kiev, but the roundabout is a full thousand.”
Ilya was silent for a moment, then shook his head:
“It would be no honor for me to take the roundabout road and let the Nightingale the Robber keep people from reaching Kiev. I will take the straight road—the unridden road!”
He leaped onto his horse, struck Burushka with his whip, and was off—the people of Chernigov saw only his dust!