Turning, she caught sight of Belun sitting with his back to the wall. Nestled in his lap, held upright by his hand, was a guttering candle. The light from the flame was yellow, but his chest was covered with streaks of crimson. His head was down as if he were dozing, but she knew he would not wake. Lighting the candle had been a final protective act on the part of the Druzhina, and a fierce hand gripped her heart at the sight of such selflessness. He died protecting his prince, she thought, protecting Rus.
The thought stirred her from the unexpected reverie, and she cast about for Illarion, the disguised prince. By the weak light of the candle, she spotted him giving ground to a willowy fighter with an arming sword and a long knife. Illarion charged into the man and seemed about to gain the advantage when a massive, fur-clad assassin emerged out of the shadows behind him and tried to cut off his arm with a single downward slash of a sword. The fancy costume of the Kynaz had saved Illarion from dismemberment, but the force of the blow was going to leave bruises if it hadn’t broken any bones in Illarion’s shoulder. The slender assassin danced away from Illarion, laughing like a maddened child, and Illarion struggled to face the man with the sword, confusion plainly written on his features. Which one to face?
Nika changed course, opting to go for the dancing youth instead of the fur-clad sword-wielder. For all of his confusion, Illarion should be able to handle the swordsman. The youth was another matter entirely, and he tittered with glee as he made eye contact with her. He seemed eager to dance with her spear, but Nika approached him with caution. Her weapon was only effective if she could keep him at range; if he got too close, his weapons would negate the effectiveness of her spear. Much like the other man she had fought, there could come a time when it was best for her to throw the spear aside.
He had to close with her. It was inevitable if he was going to kill her, and she didn’t have to wait long for him to try. She knew he would. He was too eager for blood to be patient. As he darted toward her, she feinted with her spear. He anticipated her feint and responded in kind, but she didn’t follow through. She merely struck again, on the same path, and because he had tried to be cleverer than her by feinting as well, he was still in the path of the spear. He twisted aside, displaying startling agility, and the tip of her spear struck just below his hip on the outside of his right leg. The point rang off metal and tore through his clothing, but it didn’t penetrate his leg.
She had forced him off balance, and the slashing attack of his long knife only skipped off her maille. “A woman,” he laughed as he caught sight of her beneath the open face of her helmet. “A woman killed Taras. How amusing.”
She let go of her spear, grabbed the inside of his knife arm to keep him close, and drove her helmeted forehead into his face. “I’m laughing too,” she snarled as she felt his nose crumple and blood spurt.
Illarion was having trouble moving his right arm. The pauldron had been dented—maybe even cut—by the sword, and the padded gambeson and maille he was wearing beneath the armor were the only reasons bones hadn’t been broken. He wiggled his arm, and the dancing assassin slipped away from him, laughing at his attempt. He caught sight of Nika moving past him, and then paid no more attention to the lithe boy as the fur-wearing sword-wielder was coming at him again.
He dodged, slipped, and then turned the slip into a clumsy roll. He cracked his head on the stone floor, and a burst of red and yellow flowers, like stars exploding across a meadow, filled his vision. He got his feet under him, wiped his hand across his face in a vain effort to clear his vision, and then spotted the big assassin coming at him. He raised his sword in time to block a heavy hewing stroke, and the assassin’s blade struck sparks from his as it slid off. Illarion’s pommel was pushed back, smacking his forehead, by the man’s attack, and as he felt the other’s sword slide off his, he thrust his arms forward and hammered the end of his sword against the other man’s kneecap. He got to his feet, swinging his sword wildly with both hands, and he caught the other man just above the elbow with the edge of his blade.
They stood still for a moment, staring at Illarion’s blade. It had passed nearly all the way through the man’s arm, caught between the knob of the elbow and the muscles of the upper arm. Blood was already flowing—running down the arm, raining onto the floor.
Illarion wrenched his sword free, and thrust the bloodied tip into the man’s startled face, thereby solving the problem of what to do about the half-severed arm.
The taste of blood filled his mouth as he turned, and he spit it on the floor, saying a silent apology to God for the sacrilege in his house.
He heard voices, followed by the impact of metal against bone, and he spotted Nika and the assassin engaged in a bloody dance. The lithe youth was trying to extricate himself from Nika’s grip, and as Illarion lumbered toward them, the slender man slipped free. He made a half-hearted attempt to cut Nika once more with his knife before he staggered away from Illarion’s oncoming sword.
Illarion chased after him, and nearly took a blade in the face for his efforts. The assassin had darted a few paces away, moving like smoke. Turning, he had thrown his knife at Illarion, and it was only a flash of light off the blade that warned Illarion the flung weapon was coming. He managed to deflect it enough with his sword that it bounced off his left shoulder instead of piercing the maille at the hollow of his throat. And then the assassin was on him, his arming sword flickering like lightning on a summer day.
As he closed with the slender assassin, every detail of the man’s face stood out in crystalline relief. He had the sort of chiseled features that set the hearts of village girls aflutter, marred now by a shattered nose that had splattered blood across the lower half of his face. But for the eyes, he might have been a random boyar’s son, blessed with beauty and good nutrition, but his gaze was empty of anything but a gnawing void. Like a vicious, spiteful child.
Illarion barreled into him, sword in hand. The arming sword in the assassin’s hand checked his blade, and then wound beneath it at his face. Illarion pivoted, letting the weapon slide past his cheek. Had he been wearing a helmet, the blade would have caught his helm and twisted his head to the side. Had he an ear, it would have been sliced open by the passing blade. As it was, he lost only some hair. He wrapped his left arm about his opponent’s extended arm, trapping him close, and then he brought his pommel down—hard—on the assassin’s beautiful face, destroying it further.
The assassin drove his knee up, missing Illarion’s groin and hitting him in the stomach instead. Illarion pitched forward, bending around the assassin’s arm so that he couldn’t withdraw it—and his sword—and he felt the assassin grab the cross-guard of his own sword. They both struggled, each trying to control the other, and Illarion felt his grip on the assassin’s arm starting to slip. The assassin was trying to turn his wrist to lay his blade’s edge against Illarion’s throat.
The assassin jumped suddenly, and Illarion heard the distinctive thud of a spear being thrust into flesh. The assassin struggled, putting all of his effort in freeing his right arm, and Illarion held tight.
Behind the assassin, Nika pressed all of her weight against her spear, shoving it slowly but assuredly through the assassin’s body. He writhed and screamed, blood flying from his mouth, but his strength was fading. He glared at Illarion, his face a mask of blood and hatred, and Illarion stared back, waiting for the light to leave his eyes.
It took longer than expected, but Illarion found himself in no hurry. This was the first time he could watch one of his enemies die, and he found it to be a comforting sight.
CHAPTER 22:
THE EMPTY HORIZON
Cnán hadn’t imagined there was anything drearier than riding across the steppe in the fall, but there was: that same trip during the desolate heart of winter. They were rested and provisioned, their horses were in excellent shape (and they had spares), and the weather was relatively mild for winter on the high plains. Their situation was much improved over the mountain crossing at the beginni
ng of winter, but this comparison didn’t alleviate the boredom of the endless days of riding.
And it had been only three days since they had left the rock.
They had come across the sign of a recent Mongol encampment on the afternoon of the second day, and Raphael had immediately turned the company north, forcing them to ride well past moonrise before he allowed to make camp. There had been no fire that night, and everyone had loudly complained about being stiff and sore from a night on the cold ground. But the sun had come out mid-morning and followed them all afternoon, and by the time it came down from its high arc and slipped behind the western horizon, Cnán was sorry to see it go. It was almost like one of their company were leaving them.
They set up a camp in a tight formation, and Yasper put her and Lian in charge of collecting rocks for the fire pit. He had a collection of dried patties made from a combination of horse shit and grass and twigs that stood in for firewood and he started the fire with a pinch of powders from his alchemical stash and a piece from one of his phoenix eggs. The fire started with a whoosh of blue and green flame, and on the first night both Bruno and Haakon had drawn their swords when the colored flames leapt up from the temporary fire pits. The others teased them for several hours, but Cnán could tell that the idle ribbing masked their own apprehension at Yasper’s strange powders.
The alchemist hadn’t been as talkative since they had left the rock, and she didn’t go out of her way to seek his company. Instead, she fell back on old habits and spent most of her time trying to get behind Percival’s stoic shield.
He had given his gray Arabian a name. Morgana. Was it the name of an old lover? she had asked. A family member? A fairy princess from some story of his childhood?
No, Percival had replied to all of her questions.
“He spends a lot of time with that horse,” she noted to Lian as the two of them huddled by the fire pit. Yasper’s alchemical logs burned with more heat than flame, which was good after the initial burst of wild fire, but the alchemist did not have a large supply. They burned one each night, and Cnán found herself and Lian sitting by the fire as long as possible each night before dashing for their tent in a valiant attempt to bring some of the last warmth inside the canvas shelter with them.
“He does,” Lian noted, watching Percival’s shadowy shape move among the nearby horses. “Have you seen how he rides her in battle? It is almost as if he and she were one.”
Cnán remembered Tonnerre, the trained warhorse that Percival had started their journey with. Morgana was a dutiful steed, but she had none of the training that Percival’s destrier had had. Comparing the two was like watching a baby chick try to walk and a grown hawk soaring in the sky.
Lian had one hand tucked inside her robe, and Cnán knew what the Chinese woman was clutching. She had seen the tiny lacquer box a few times when Lian thought she had been sleeping. She had no idea what was inside the box but knew it was the single most important thing in the world to Lian.
“What’s his name?” she asked suddenly.
“What?” Lian asked, her attention coming away from Percival and the horses. Her hand withdrew and she idly smoothed the front of her robe.
“The man you are thinking about,” Cnán said, knowing that she had guessed right.
“There is no man,” Lian said defensively.
“Is it him?” Cnán nodded toward the horses.
“No,” Lian scoffed.
“Gawain? Haakon?”
“It is no one in this company,” Lian said, cutting Cnán off before she could list every member of their group.
“But there is someone,” Cnán pressed.
“There was,” Lian admitted.
“What happened?”
“I stole his heart,” Lian said, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “And I put his tent and all of his worldly possessions to the torch.”
“You did no such thing,” Cnán snorted.
Lian giggled and her fingers flew up to her lips in a vain effort to suppress the sound. “I did,” she said. “You saw the smoke.”
“Where?” Cnán thought back to the day when she had infiltrated the Khagan’s camp at Burqan-qaldun, intent on rescuing Haakon. To her surprise, the young man had already been out of his cage, along with a red-haired giant of a man named Krasniy. And Lian, who had been in the process of escaping from the Khagan.
“That fire?” she asked. “In the Khagan’s camp. That was your doing?”
“It was,” Lian admitted.
“Your…your lover’s tent?”
“What happened to whose tent?” a new voice asked, and both women looked up as Bruno joined them at the fire. He had his skin of spirits and several small cups.
“Ask her,” Cnán said, jerking her head at Lian.
“It’s a long story,” Lian said before Bruno could do such a thing.
“Does it have a happy ending?” Bruno asked as he unstoppered the skin and poured a measure into each cup.
“Not really,” Lian admitted, and Cnán choked back a snort of laughter.
“Ah, well, it’s probably not worth dragging out of you then,” Bruno said with a smile. He offered each of them a cup.
Lian accepted hers reluctantly and made no move to actually drink the contents. Cnán sniffed her cup carefully and her eyes watered at the strength of the spirits within. “What is this?” she sputtered, holding the cup as far away from her as possible.
“Don’t drop it in the fire,” Lian cautioned her, a knowing smile on her lips, and Cnán snatched her hand back.
“Yasper’s recipe,” Bruno said. “I just drink it.” He raised his cup and threw the contents into his mouth. He grimaced as the liquid went down his throat, but sighed noisily after it settled. “You know you’re alive after a sip of that,” he added, touching a thumb to the corner of one eye to mop up the tear starting there.
Cnán took a tentative sip, anticipating the worst—and it was worse than anything she had braced herself for. Her mouth burst into flame, and even though she tried to stop the liquid from going down her throat, it wiggled down anyway, lighting everything on fire as it fell. It hit her stomach and the resulting explosion was not unlike the burst of blue and green flame when Yasper ignited his shit patties. She gasped, choked, wept, and felt sweat start across her forehead and neck. “That’s foul,” she croaked.
“Aye,” Bruno said. “But it will keep you warm tonight.”
Another figure emerged from the darkness beyond the weak flames, and Cnán hastily shoved her half-empty cup at him. Haakon took the offered cup as he sat down. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’ll put hair on your chest,” Bruno said, saluting with his cup.
“I have hair on my chest,” Haakon said. He sniffed at the cup.
“Why does everyone smell their cups?” Bruno asked. “It is pure spirits. Do Yasper and I look like we’re connoisseurs of flavor?”
Lian threw back the contents of her cup in one quick motion. Her lips tightened and a shudder ran through her frame, but she swallowed the spirits with no visible discomfort. Bruno stared at her, his mouth hanging open.
“I spent time at the Khagan’s court in Karakorum,” she explained. “Drinking wine and stronger spirits was one of the Khagan’s favorite activities. The rest of the court tried to keep up.”
Bruno poured another measure into Lian’s cup. “Ah, I have heard tales about how much wine flowed into Karakorum. It was the death of him, wasn’t it? I heard he died in a hunting accident—fell off his horse while intoxicated.”
Cnán stared at the slumbering fire. “Well, it certainly happened while he was hunting,” she said.
“And if an event isn’t planned, it could certainly be called an accident,” Lian said.
Haakon finished off Cnán’s cup and handed it back to her without saying a word, though he did make eye contact and raise his eyebrows. Cnán held out the cup to Lian, who poured half of hers into it. “Yes,” Cnán said, raising her cup. “To Ögedei Khan and his hunti
ng accident.”
Lian echoed her words and they both emptied their cups. Cnán flicked her cup at the fire, shedding the last drops, and a finger of blue flame leaped up from the coals as the spirit ignited. “Good riddance,” she said.
Bruno was peering intently at her and Lian, trying to read something in their toast. Lian collected Cnán’s cup and handed them both back to the Lombard, who took them absently. “The other day, Vera said that you were being hunted by the Mongols,” he started.
Cnán giggled. “All of them,” she said, quoting Vera.
“Aye,” Bruno growled. “What did she mean by that?”
“I think she meant all of them,” Haakon said. He leaned forward stiffly, his range of motion not quite normal due to the arrow wound in his back. He indicated that Bruno should pour him a measure of the spirits.
“Why?” Bruno asked, pouring for Haakon and handing the cup to Lian who passed it along.
“Because I killed him,” Haakon said.
“Who?” Bruno asked.
“It wasn’t an accident,” Haakon said quietly as he accepted the cup from Cnán. “He asked me to tell him about the sea before he died. So I did”—he shrugged and drank—“and then he was gone.”
Bruno hiccupped and then let out a loud bray of laughter. “You three are having a go at me,” he said. “Just because I’m drunk doesn’t mean my wits have left me entirely. I know a bullshit story when I hear one.”
Haakon tugged the sheathed knife from his belt and tossed it toward Bruno. It landed between the Lombard and Lian. Cnán had seen the knife before, but she hadn’t paid much attention to it, and now that it was on display, she realized the leatherwork wasn’t done in the style of the West. The handle of the knife was smooth bone, a polished piece of antler from one of the steppe deer. “Oh, Goddess,” she breathed.
“What is that?” Bruno said, staring at the sheathed blade.
“I know that knife,” Lian said thickly. She clutched her robe and visibly shrank away from the knife. “It was a gift to Ögedei Khan from his father, Temujin—the man who became Genghis Khan.”
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 22