Kristaps paused on the porch of the church. The Prince-Bishop’s face glistened in the light from the bonfires in the square; behind him, the church was dark. The body of Onikii would be found by the squatters who dared sneak back into the church, a nameless victim of the occupation of Pskov.
“As long as the prince lives, this war cannot be won,” Kristaps said. “I would meet him on the field and kill him in battle, but why should I? Why should I waste all of our men when his death can be accomplished by stealth and greed?”
“The people of Pskov will turn against them,” Hermann said.
“Of course they will,” Kristaps said, “which is why I expect them to do it quickly before another one of them loses his nerve. Besides, if one of their own people slays the prince—and mark my words, he is not without enemies among the Novgorodians—who will say it was at our behest? Let them squabble among themselves while we take one city after another.”
“Prince Alexander has brothers,” Hermann said, staring dully at the bottle in his hands.
“Brothers who will need to take time to gather the allies he already has, brothers who do not have the victories to their names that he possesses. Kill the man, and his replacement will not be able to rally what remains against us. Not in time,” Kristaps said.
“And if you’re wrong?” Hermann asked, his voice almost lost in the night.
“Then they’ll hate us more than they already do,” Kristaps said. “And they’ll discover how little they truly know about hate.”
“What devil is it that hounds you?” Hermann asked.
“I only seek to do what is required of me,” Kristaps answered.
“That is all any man seeks to do,” Hermann said. He pushed away from the wall and stood close to Kristaps. There was a glint in the Prince-Bishop’s eye, and Kristaps couldn’t decide if it was the mead granting Hermann additional bravery or if the Prince-Bishop actually thought there was something that could be used against him. “Who wronged you?” the Prince-Bishop asked.
Kristaps said nothing. The scars on his forearms itched, burning with the memories he longed to purge from his mind. The wounds on his arms had long healed since the day beneath the earth, when desperation in the crucible had made him let go of the heavy shield whilst pounding water dragged him forward, both hands seizing the outstretched sword with its burning hot pommel. When he’d been pulled from the water, mutilated by the marks of his shame, his master had refused to meet his gaze. His brothers—nay, they would never be his brothers, the cowards!—had abandoned him.
And then Volquin had failed him. And Dietrich too. None of them had been strong enough. The masters of his order, the Templars, the Hospitallers, the Shield-Brethren. They all stood in a long line behind him, a line that ran through his memory like the flight of an arrow. All the way back to the mountain fortress of Petraathen and that day in the cave beneath the temple of Athena.
“I was deceived by our enemies, once,” Kristaps said finally. “Deceived, wronged, and mutilated. I have not forgotten.”
Hermann nodded slowly as if he understood, though Kristaps was sure the Prince-Bishop had no idea of what was being discussed. “You care naught about Rus, then?”
“Not in the slightest,” Kristaps said. “It is nothing more than a wretched wasteland. Too cold to be of use to anyone.”
“Is it merely duty then that keeps you here?”
“Duty and honor,” Kristaps replied. “What else does a man have?”
“Indeed,” Hermann said. The Prince-Bishop stepped back, his head swiveling toward the darkened church, and Kristaps suspected the Prince-Bishop was thinking of Iakov, the strange youth they had encountered in the desolate church. “What else?”
CHAPTER 14:
THE RETURN OF THE PRINCE
This was not the first time that Nika had seen Novgorod, but nevertheless the sight of the city took her breath away. Kiev had been the most beautiful city in the north, but once it had been decimated by the Mongol horde, that title had fallen to Novgorod, and Novgorod strove to uphold that honor. The afternoon sun sparkled on the white snow surrounding the mottled walls of the city, making the stones appear blacker than they were. All along the battlements, she could see people waving. They knew the Kynaz was returning, and they were eager to see their prince. The hero of Neva, the noble prince who would deliver them in this, their darkest hour. She found such notions quaint—dangerous, even, for those who hoped to survive in the wasted lands of the north—but she found the ease with which men fell prey to the hubris of being called a hero even more disturbing.
But Alexander had never claimed that mantle, had he? she mused as the prince’s lengthy entourage of mounted knights moved toward the open gates. Most of her sisters were not part of the main procession; they remained in the vanguard, watching the wagons and supplies, along with the bulk of the men-at-arms. Alexander wanted to make a strong impression when he entered the city, but he did not want to alarm the Veche.
She had had opportunity to observe the Kynaz since she and the Shield-Maidens had joined his army, and while he seemed little more than a boy, he made decisions that displayed a wisdom far advanced for his years. He was eminently practical, rarely swayed by glorious ideals that were of little use in the field, and he appeared genuinely to care about the people whom he was sworn to protect. It was not difficult to see why men flocked to his banner.
Illarion rode with the prince’s party, humble in appearance beside Novgorod’s young war-leader. The bruise on his forehead was still visible, even though he tried to hide it by letting his white hair hang down across his face. Nika had heard several versions of the bout with the Northman Ozur, and she had congratulated Illarion on humanizing himself to the men, but Illarion had dismissed her praise with a wave of his hand. That is not why I fought, he had said. His reasons didn’t matter, for the result was that the men now spoke of him less as a ghost and more as a mere man. She was considering challenging some of the Northmen herself with the hope that such bouts might have a similar effect for her sisters.
They were close enough to the walls now that she could make out individual faces among the crowd atop the walls. Fathers held their children on their shoulders, and the tiny faces were alight with joy at the sight of the prince’s knights. Looking at the numerous fur-lined cloaks and hats, Nika was reminded that Novgorod’s wealth stemmed from the fur trade. Crops grew poorly this far north, but there was an abundance of wild animals in the forests. Fur flowed south and west; in return, silver, gold, silk, and steel flowed into the city. If the Teutonic Knights captured Novgorod, they would have access to a wealthy trade route, and it would be very difficult to dislodge them from the north.
The Veche had finally come to their senses, realizing that paying tribute to the Teutonic Knights would be much more onerous than any demands put to them by Alexander. But that didn’t mean they were going to welcome him back with open arms, she thought as she caught sight of the line of mounted men who blocked the way into the city proper.
Alexander held up his arm, signaling for his retinue to halt, and with the practiced ease of a life-long rider, he slid from the saddle of his horse. His cloak floated behind him as he strode toward the line of men. The people atop the wall were cheering and shouting, and he raised his face toward them and waved. Playing to the crowd.
He was Nevsky to them. The hero of the battle at Neva. He was, Nika realized, even more of an outsider than she and her sisters. The stories that surrounded him would terrify his enemies and impress those he hoped to make his allies, but the time would always come when words and stories were not enough and the would-be friend or foe would demand proof of the prince’s qualities in exchange for respect. She had seen the devotion he had earned from his men, but it was not a hard thing to earn the love of those who fought in your service. Nor was it difficult to earn the love of the common folk.
The Veche were neither friend nor foe, and it was critical to sway them. In the end, when lords and princes fight, i
t is always the people who suffer, she thought bitterly.
The Mongols had circled Kiev for weeks, destroying the outlying villages and driving the displaced people toward Kiev. By the time they surrounded the city, it was overflowing with refugees and horror stories about what the Mongols were going to do once they breached the walls. The boyars of Kiev had been unable to come to a consensus as to their response to Batu Khan’s demands for their surrender. They were still squabbling among themselves when the Golden Gate fell and the horsemen of the steppes poured into the city.
The Shield-Maidens had weathered the death of Kiev by holing up in their fortress cathedral and the Lavra beneath. They had saved those they could, but in the end, what Nika remembered was the screaming outside the doors, the sounds of chaos and destruction mingled with the horrific stench of the city burning. She and the others had prayed for hours, beseeching Saint Ilya, the Virgin, and any other god or saint who might answer for forgiveness and for strength, whilst outside the walls of the citadel Kiev was reduced to rubble.
For many months after, Nika and her sisters had fought back against those Mongols who remained behind, and after them, those who stumbled upon the devastated city and thought there might still be treasure to be found within the ruins. Then the Livonians came, and at first they had thought the knights of the west had finally come to their aid, but the Livonians were of a different mind. It was only when the Shield-Brethren arrived that she thought her prayers had been answered, but then a quarter of the remaining Shield-Maidens had left Kiev with them and not returned, leaving her to wonder if those who stayed behind had been truly abandoned.
The question had remained unanswered until the night she saw Baba Yaga. Until she had been given an unmistakable sign.
The line of mounted men parted and a contingent passed through—men in richly furred cloaks and peaked caps. One wore the distinctive robes of the Eastern Church—the Bishop of Novgorod? she wondered. The men reached Alexander and arms were clasped and words were spoken. From where she sat, Nika couldn’t read much in the expression of the boyars who had come to greet Alexander.
She fidgeted in her saddle. Nika was a trained warrior, and capable as they came, but inaction, especially in formal settings, was uncomfortable. She let her gaze sweep across Alexander’s retinue and then up to the walls, examining faces and postures. She knew she was looking for a threat, a reason to spur her horse into action, and while she doubted she’d spot anything, it was the most movement she could do without drawing unnecessary attention to herself.
After the initial greetings were exchanged, Alexander dropped to one knee and the bishop laid a cloak about his shoulders. He made signs over the kneeling prince and, judging by the start-stop motion of his mouth, Alexander and the Veche were now exchanging promises. They would most likely be presented as oaths of fealty—most likely sworn in Latin—but Nika knew such oaths were only as good as the intent of the men who swore them. She could imagine what Alexander was thinking as he repeated the bishop’s words: Yea, I will protect this city and its leaders, though they hate that they have to seek my aid and are secretly plotting to not pay my men.
And the boyars, in response: We promise to be loyal to your dictates until it is inconvenient. We offer our sons to you, though we wish you would simply go off and defeat these invaders without them.
The bishop raised his face toward the sky and blessed these oaths: Lord God bless this awkward lie of an allegiance of convenience.
As she watched the Kynaz and Veche swear oaths to each other, it occurred to her that for all the double words and broken promises in the world, the true test of power was the ability to walk through these circles with their corruptions, their latticework of crisscrossing motivations, and still come out on the other side with the good of your people accomplished. A man might fall or fail in uncounted ways, but if he came through with that at least to say for himself, he would have done well as far as she was concerned.
The boyars and Alexander embraced, their spoken oaths making them the best of friends, and Nika read more stiffness in the boyars than in Alexander. He really was quite skilled in his ability to hide his true emotions, she marveled. A cheer rose up from the people atop the wall, and it was matched by shouts of joy from Alexander’s retinue. The boyars waved at the crowds as they walked back to the city, as if the people were actually cheering for them. Alexander stood still, looking up at the people on the walls. Nika wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. They’re not going to stop as long as he stands there, she thought.
Finally, he raised his right arm in salute to the people of Novgorod, and then he lowered it in a gesture for his knights to proceed into the city. The retinue started slowly, parting as it passed around him. The men at the gates withdrew and the army of the Kynaz entered Novgorod.
Nika saw Illarion hanging back, and she nudged her horse through the men until she was beside him. Together, they waited until all of the men had passed and only Alexander remained. He saluted the people on the wall once more and then he walked—unhurriedly, his new cloak billowing behind him—into Novgorod.
CHAPTER 15:
UNEXPECTED VISITORS
The return of the scouts created a stir in the camp, and everyone gathered around the fire pit as Yasper and Bruno helped Haakon down from Evren’s horse. The front of Haakon’s leather doublet was stained black with blood, and the broken shaft of an arrow protruded from high on his back. His movements were sluggish and his head lolled from side to side as Yasper and Bruno tried to settle him on the ground.
Raphael pushed his way through the others and knelt by Haakon. “Keep him upright,” Raphael said as he inspected Haakon’s eyes and mouth. He slapped Haakon lightly as the Northman’s head fell back, and Haakon jerked up with the blow, his eyes focusing on Raphael, but he still didn’t say anything.
“No blood in his throat,” Raphael said as he tugged back Haakon’s doublet and gingerly inspected the arrow shaft. He probed with his fingers, eliciting a hiss of pain from Haakon. “I don’t dare push it through. We’ll have to cut it out.” He looked around, spotting the pair of Seljuks. “Mongols?” he asked.
The word didn’t need translation, and Evren nodded. He rattled off several sentences in the Persian dialect he and Ahmet used, and Raphael glanced at Cnán, who was trying to keep up with the excited Seljuk. “Something about a scouting party,” she said. She frowned as she continued to listen. “And another group, I think. I’m not quite sure.”
“Haidar,” Gawain said as he joined the group at the fire pit. Gawain was not as tall as Rædwulf, who had journeyed east with the Shield-Brethren company, but his broad shoulders and big hands reminded Cnán of the fallen bowman. Gawain’s hair was short but shaggy, and his beard was not so wild and untamed that his teeth weren’t readily apparent when he smiled.
He was not smiling now.
Raphael sat back on his haunches and squinted up at Gawain. “Is he the one who you have been waiting for?”
Gawain traded a glance with Bruno. “Aye,” he said.
Raphael sighed and got to his feet. “Let me take care of this first, and then we’ll talk.”
While Raphael removed the arrow from Haakon and dressed the wound, the rest of the company began to assemble their gear. After making sure Haakon was comfortable in one of the tents, Raphael returned to the fire pit where Gawain, Yasper, Cnán, Vera, and Lian were waiting.
“What happened?” he asked, looking at Cnán as if he expected her to summarize what the others had been discussing while he had been working.
“Haakon stumbled upon a Mongol scouting party,” she said. “He tried to run, but not before…”—she gestured at her shoulder, indicating the spot where Haakon had been struck by the arrow—“and he tried to warn the Seljuks. As the three of them were heading back, trying to lose the Mongols, they stumbled upon another group of riders. Luckily, the Mongols thought these new riders were friends of our scouts and so they broke off. That’s when they lost one of the horses.”
“Do they think the other riders are coming here?”
“Undoubtedly,” Gawain said. “Especially if they recognized Ahmet or Evren.”
“Who are they?” Raphael asked.
“Men from Arabia,” Gawain said, “Led by a man named Haidar.”
“What is your relationship with this man?”
Gawain glanced at the others. “He and I were offered gold by the same man, to guard his caravan.”
“And?” Cnán prompted when Gawain didn’t say anything more.
“And there was a disagreement,” Gawain said. “Partially about money. Partially about other things.”
“Do they intend to take the horses, or are they seeking sterner justice?” Raphael asked.
Gawain shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Haidar.”
“I don’t see any reason why I should converse with the man,” Raphael said. He knelt and picked up Yasper’s fire-poking stick. “How many?” he asked and when Gawain told him the number, he scratched twelve short lines in the dirt, and then drew a solid line beneath them. “This isn’t our fight.”
Gawain chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, and Cnán could guess what he was thinking. He and his companions had saved them from the storm. Was there a debt there that could be called? Would the Shield-Brethren stand by that debt?
She glanced at Raphael and was pleased to not be able to read any indication one way or another in his face. All traces of indecisiveness were gone. All she saw was the set line of his mouth and his hard stare—the face of a man who knew he might have to do violence and the utter calm with which he would attend to that task.
“They’ll be here soon,” Yasper pointed out.
“Aye,” Raphael said. “That they will be. You may have saved the lives of my companions and me when you rescued us from the snows. I won’t contest that claim, but any debt you think is inherently owed without our acknowledgement is akin to servitude and the Shield-Brethren do not abide by such claims, nor do we abide by those terms being applied to those under our protection.”
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 14