Fyodor Nabylkin and the Real Bogatyrs

In a certain village lived a poor man named Fyodor Nabylkin. He wasn’t particularly strong, but he was clever.

One day, he decided he wanted to become a hero. “Why can’t I be a hero?” thought Fyodor Nabylkin. “Why is it that only the strong can be heroes?”

He made himself a linen tent, a saddle, took a scythe instead of a sword, mounted his feeble horse, and set off on his journey.

He rode and rode until he reached a big city. There, he saw a post by the road with various notices hanging on it. Quickly, he pulled a pencil from his pocket and wrote his own note: “In such-and-such a year, in such-and-such a month, on such-and-such a day, the mighty hero Fyodor Nabylkin passed through this city. Do not chase him from behind, do not meet him in front, but stop from afar, take off your hat, and bow!”

He nailed the notice to the post and rode on.

Meanwhile, soon after, a real hero named Dubovik was traveling down the same road. He read the notice and was amazed: what kind of new hero had appeared? He wanted to get a glimpse of him, but it was forbidden to chase him from behind or meet him in front... He’d have to bow from afar!

Dubovik took a detour of three miles, rode ahead, took off his hat, and shouted:

“Good day, mighty hero Fyodor Nabylkin! I wish to become your junior companion. Shall I ride behind you or in front of you?”

“Behind,” said Fyodor Nabylkin.

The hero turned back and followed him.

They arrived at a wide green meadow. Fyodor Nabylkin let his nag graze, set up his tent, and went to sleep.

Dubovik set up his tent some distance away.

In the morning, Dubovik got up and began sharpening his sword on a large whetstone. Fyodor Nabylkin saw this and started sharpening his scythe on a stone. The sword made a quiet sound: shik-shik, but the scythe rang loudly: dzin-dzin against the stone!

Dubovik thought enviously, “What a sword this hero has! It rings unlike mine.”

They stayed on the meadow for two days, and on the third day, Dubovik said to Fyodor Nabylkin:

“Not far from here lives a three-headed dragon named Smok. He challenges heroes to battle. Will you go yourself, or shall I?”

“Bah,” spat Fyodor Nabylkin, “I won’t dirty my hands with such a trifle! You go!”

So, the hero gathered himself and rode off. Meanwhile, Fyodor Nabylkin went back to sleep.

Dubovik approached Smok.

“Who are you?” asked Smok. “Are you Fyodor Nabylkin himself? I’ve heard of you. They say there’s even a notice that a new mighty hero has appeared in this kingdom.”

Dubovik saw that Smok was terribly afraid of Fyodor Nabylkin. So he said:

“Yes, I am Fyodor Nabylkin.”

“Well then, Fyodor Nabylkin, shall we fight or make peace?”

“No, foul creature, I did not come here to make peace, but to fight!”

The hero Dubovik drew his sharp sword and cut off all three of Smok’s heads. He trampled two heads into the swamp and impaled the third on his sword, bringing it back to show his senior companion, Fyodor Nabylkin. He arrived and asked:

“Where shall I put the dragon’s head?”

“Throw it in the bushes!” Fyodor Nabylkin waved his hand.

Meanwhile, a hero named Gorovik was passing through the city. He saw the notice and was surprised: “Ah, here’s someone I’d like to meet!” He followed the trail and arrived at the wide green meadow. He bowed from afar to Fyodor Nabylkin and said:

“Mighty hero Fyodor Nabylkin, will you accept me as a companion?”

“Very well. Set up your tent.” So Gorovik set up his tent.

The next morning, Gorovik said to Nabylkin:

“A foul six-headed Smok has appeared in our land. Will you go fight him yourself, or shall I?”

“Bah,” spat Fyodor Nabylkin, “I won’t dirty my hands with such a trifle! You go!”

Gorovik rode off, cut off all six of Smok’s heads, and brought one back as proof.

“Where shall I put the dragon’s head?” he asked Fyodor Nabylkin.

“Throw that rubbish in the bushes!”

And so, the fame of Fyodor Nabylkin spread far and wide.

Word of him reached the nine-headed Smok.

He challenged Fyodor Nabylkin to a duel. Fyodor Nabylkin wanted to send one of his junior companions again, but they flatly refused.

“We’ve already gone,” they said. “Now it’s your turn. Besides, this Smok is too strong for us to handle.”

Well, there was nothing to be done—he had to go. And how could such a mighty hero lose his honor?

Nabylkin gathered himself, mounted his nag, and rode off.

Smok waited and waited for Fyodor Nabylkin, but when he didn’t show up, he went out to meet him. They met halfway. When Fyodor Nabylkin saw the nine-headed monster before him, he was terrified and quickly turned back! Smok chased after him.

Fyodor Nabylkin veered off the main road and ended up on an unused path. That path led to a swamp, a quagmire. He flew down the deserted road and fell straight into the mire. Smok didn’t notice and also plunged in—only his heads stuck out.

Fyodor Nabylkin was light and quickly climbed out, but Smok got stuck in the swamp like a log.

Fyodor Nabylkin looked around—Smok was stuck so deeply he couldn’t move. He saw Smok’s sword, picked it up with difficulty, and began cutting off the monster’s heads. He cut off all nine heads, trampled the heavy sword into the swamp, and walked back on foot: he couldn’t get his nag out of the mire.

He returned to the meadow and shouted to the heroes:

“Hey, lads! Go to the swamp-quagmire and fetch my heroic horse. I fought the foul Smok there and cut off all nine of his heads.”

The heroes went to the swamp and saw that it was true—all nine of the dragon’s heads were lying in the swamp!

“What a strongman!” they said. “It’s a marvel: he trampled the foul Smok into the quagmire and cut off all nine heads! And with what? It’s not even a sword, just some scythe!”

Gorovik picked up the nag under his arm and brought it to his master.

Even greater fame spread about the mighty hero Fyodor Nabylkin. King Khrapun himself heard of him. He wanted to have such a glorious hero, who had defeated the nine-headed Smok, by his side. He sent him an invitation.

Fyodor Nabylkin appeared at the palace. The king ordered expensive clothes to be made for him, gave him the best room in the palace, and assigned servants and a cook to him.

Fyodor Nabylkin lived in comfort.

A year passed, then another, and in the third year, an evil and fearsome neighboring king named Khapun marched against King Khrapun.

He gathered an army so vast it couldn’t be counted. He stationed his army at the capital of King Khrapun and sent a message: “I challenge you to battle!”

King Khrapun was frightened and asked Fyodor Nabylkin:

“What shall we do? Khapun will defeat me...”

“He won’t!” said Fyodor Nabylkin. “Don’t worry, father. Go to sleep, and I’ll handle the battle.”

The king yawned sweetly and went to sleep, while Fyodor Nabylkin ordered all the tailors, shoemakers, carpenters, and joiners to come to the capital, each with their tools.

And all the craftsmen from across the kingdom came to the capital—carpenters with axes, tailors with needles, joiners with saws, shoemakers with awls...

Fyodor Nabylkin came out and said:

“In three days, make me seven regiments of wooden soldiers!”

“Very well,” said the craftsmen. “We’ll do it!” And they set to work.

When the army was ready, Fyodor Nabylkin ordered:

“Deploy the wooden army outside the city!” And so they did. Meanwhile, he hid the real army in the bushes.

In the morning, King Khapun woke up and saw seven regiments of King Khrapun’s army standing against him. It was time to start the war.

All day, Khapun’s soldiers shot at Khrapun’s soldiers. They burned all their gunpowder, used up all their bullets, but didn’t kill a single man.

King Khapun was amazed: had King Khrapun deployed an enchanted army?

Meanwhile, Fyodor Nabylkin gave the order to unleash the real army.

His soldiers ran out from the bushes and began shooting at Khapun’s army. They shot and shot—killed the entire army and captured Khapun himself, bringing him to King Khrapun.

Fyodor Nabylkin woke the king and said:

“What shall we do with the prisoner, father?”

The king rubbed his eyes and saw the bound Khapun standing before him.

He was delighted and emboldened.

“Load him into a cannon,” he said, “and shoot him back where he came from.”

And so they did. The king went outside the city and saw that the entire enemy army had fallen, while his soldiers were alive and well.

“How did you manage this?” asked the king. “Khapun had three times the strength...”

“I,” said Fyodor Nabylkin, “fight not with strength, but with wit.”

Then King Khrapun made Fyodor Nabylkin the supreme commander of his army, and he himself went to sleep.

Now he slept peacefully, for none of the neighboring kings dared to wage war against him.

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Fyodor Nabylkin and the Real Bogatyrs

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