Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4)

by Joseph Brassey

  He thought of his last meeting in the prince’s tent, shortly before he donned the armor of the Kynaz and rode for Pskov. He thought of Alexander’s finger, tapping the map. Dorpat.

  “Pskov has suffered enough,” he said. “I will not punish a city that has seen its people defiled and burned. I will not harm a people who have given their lives and lost their homes for me. I will not allow fear to rule the lives of those under my protection. I refuse to be cowed. I refuse to lie down and let my enemy trample me into the cold ground of Rus!”

  At some point in that recitation, he had lost track of pretending to be the Kynaz. The words rising up from the anger in his belly were his and his alone. He raised his hands so that they could see the dark stains on his sleeves and arms. “I have blood on my hands,” he shouted. “We all have blood on our hands, and it has been the blood of our families. No more, I say. If there is blood to be spilled, let it be the blood of our enemies.”

  The Druzhina liked that idea, and they cheered and shouted in agreement. The common folk joined in as well, though they were less enthused than the armored warriors. Illarion felt Nika at his side. She stood stiffly at attention, her face betraying no emotion, but he could see a glitter in her eyes that said she shared the sentiment echoing in the church.

  “Our enemy sought to enrage the people of Rus by defiling this village. He wanted us here while he roamed free—out there in the wilderness, burning and defiling other cities. He wanted us to always be behind him, tripping over the dead and staggering through the ruins of his passage. He thinks our fear will grow so great that we will fall to our knees and beg him to stop. Stop burning Rus. Stop slaying our children.” Illarion took a deep breath before he continued. “Is that all we are? Beggars too frightened to take up arms and protect ourselves?”

  The church shook with the resounding shout that came from the throats of those assembled.

  “Careful,” Nika whispered to him in the wake of the roaring refutation of the crowd. “You are supposed to be the prince. Do not promise them something he would not give.”

  He offered her a sad smile, knowing better than she what the prince wanted him to do, who the prince wanted him to be.

  “I came to you today in the guise of your prince,” he said more loudly. “I came to you wearing the mask and colors of the Kynaz because that is who our enemy expected Novgorod would send to liberate Pskov. But Pskov did not need liberation. Pskov needed to be reminded of who it is.” He swept his hair, some of it matted with blood, back from his missing ear. “I am Illarion Illarionovich, one-time son of Volodymyr-Volynskyi. I fought the Mongols when they came, and I failed to save my city. My family and I were put to death beneath the planks. When the black bone Mongols came to take their trophies from the corpses, the touch of their knives brought me back. They took my ear, but I took their lives!”

  He held up his hands to quell the shouting and stomping of many feet that followed, and when the crowd fell silent, he continued.

  “I am Plank. Wood hewn from the forests of Rus. Wood used to shelter the people of Rus. Wood stained with the blood of Rus. I am Illarion Illarionovich; I am Plank; I am Rus. Just as each of you are Rus, and this land is ours. It has always been ours and will always be ours. The Mongols, who numbered in the tens of thousands more than these invaders from the south and north, could not destroy us. Why do we fear them? Why do we suffer their presence in our fields and forests?”

  It was a rhetoric question, but Illarion let it hang for a few moments and the crowd broke out into a hundred different voices, all sharing the same enthusiasm, the same desire to be Rus.

  “If they want to come to our lands and burn our villages and slay our children, then I say we show them the same courtesy,” Illarion cried. “I say we don’t bother chasing this reaver as he wanders across our lands. I say we go to his home. Let us trample his fine tapestries and drink his wine. Let us piss in his fireplace so that it sends up a foul smoke. Let us burn his house and salt his fields. Let us eradicate any sign that he ever existed!”

  Pandemonium erupted in the church at his words, and the great weight that had been pressing down on his back and neck was lifted by their raucous glee and bloodlust. He stood, eyes closed, and listened to their voices, letting the noise batter him.

  He was brought out of his reverie by a touch on his arm. The hooded man who had been kneeling beside the bodies was standing next to him, offering him the Kynaz’s helmet. The man leaned close, speaking into his left ear. “You will need this.”

  Illarion started, recognizing the voice, and he peered into the shadows of the hood.

  Alexander Nevsky put a finger to his lips. “I was never here,” the prince said.

  Dumbfounded, Illarion took the offered helmet and the cloaked figure of the prince stepped back into the rank of the Druzhina. Illarion turned to Nika, intending to say something to her, but the Shield-Maiden was staring into the crowd. When Illarion looked, he caught sight of the hooded figure.

  When the figure pulled its cloak tighter about its frame, he saw the hands were withered and bony, like those of an old woman.

  “Plank! Plank! Plank!” the crowd chanted, finding a single word to convey all of their emotions.

  He glanced at Nika to see if she had seen the same apparition as he had, but she was staring at him. Her eyes were wide, and he couldn’t decide if the root of her expression was fear or wonder.

  CHAPTER 24:

  THE CUNNING WOLF

  Any question as to whether the approaching riders were Mongolian was settled when the six riders split into three groups of two. Gansukh and Alchiq slowed their horses to a mere amble. Alchiq rested both hands on his saddle horn, leaning forward with an expectant gleam in his eye. Gansukh made sure his bow was easily accessible, should it come to that, but he, too, tried to appear as relaxed as possible.

  The first pair rode straight at them, while each of the remaining pairs circled to the left and right. It was a standard tactic, one both Gansukh and Alchiq had been party to on numerous occasions during their campaigning years. The pair in the front would be the ones most likely to start shooting arrows if it looked like Gansukh and Alchiq were going to be hostile. The others were meant to distract them, and they would circle around, passing each other behind the pair. The approach meant that no matter which direction Alchiq and Gansukh turned, they would have someone at their front and back.

  Of course, they outnumber us three to one, Gansukh thought as he watched the riders gallop toward them. Which means they’re being cautious, and why is that?

  It was an interesting question, and he thought to suggest it to Alchiq, but one glance at the older hunter told him that Alchiq had already had the same thought. The gleam in his eye was nearly feral.

  “Ho, free riders under Blue Heaven,” Alchiq called as soon as the leading pair were within earshot. “We greet you with sadness in our hearts and nothing but the wind and sun in our hands.” He raised his hands to demonstrate the truth of his words, spreading his fingers so that they could clearly see his missing digit.

  Gansukh did the same, but he didn’t raise his hands as high as Alchiq’s.

  The leading pair slowed, and as the other pairs thundered past them, Gansukh got his first good look at the riders. They were dressed in fur-lined jackets over plain deel, with fur-lined hats and boots. They wore purple sashes, and one of the two held his bow across his lap. The other one had a long scar on his right cheek that made his eye and mouth droop. “Ho, riders,” the droopy-mouthed one called. “You are far from anywhere worth visiting.”

  Alchiq traded a knowing glance with Gansukh. He’s the ugly one, Gansukh thought, and yet he speaks for the rest of them.

  “As are you,” Alchiq replied, not willing to be put on the defensive quite so readily. “Or does your clan lay claim to this worthless land? We have not seen a decent pasture in, what, a week or more?”

  Gansukh said nothing. It was Alchiq’s play. He wasn’t going to draw their attention to him. N
ot yet.

  “If it was land that belonged to my clan, you would be crossing it without permission,” the scarred Mongol said. “I could even accuse you of attempting to steal our horses.”

  “The ones you are riding?” Alchiq shrugged. “We’d be happy to take them. If you could take off your saddles too, that would be most helpful.”

  The other pairs passed behind Gansukh and Alchiq, one pair inside the other, and they galloped back toward their companions.

  The ugly one threw back his head and laughed. “You are full of bluster, old man,” he said when he was finished laughing. “Did the last warrior you were so impertinent to take that missing finger of yours?”

  “No,” Alchiq said. “A wolf bit it off.”

  “A wolf?” the Mongol chuckled. “And where is the proof of this? I don’t see a wolf pelt hanging from your belt. Did you give him your finger and get nothing in return?”

  Alchiq looked at Gansukh, and Gansukh offered him a shrug. There had been more than one wolf to deal with. He had been a little distracted.

  “Aye,” Alchiq said, raising his maimed hand and pressing his lips against his stump. “I gave my finger to Blue Wolf, and Blue Wolf watches over me now. If I need him, I have but to shout his name and he will come.” He dropped his reins and slid off his horse. “Would you like me to demonstrate?” he asked as he walked toward the pair. His hands were still open and empty.

  The other one reached for an arrow but hesitated. Alchiq had left his sword hanging off his saddle. Other than a short knife in his belt, the old hunter was unarmed. The bowman glanced at the ugly one, who was looking at Alchiq with a bemused expression. “And if I call your bluff, old man, and nothing happens, what then?”

  “Nothing,” Alchiq said. “Nothing at all.”

  Alchiq’s answer confused the ugly Mongol, and Gansukh had to admit he was confused as well. He couldn’t figure out what Alchiq’s plan was, but he knew the old hunter was up to something. He wouldn’t have waited to be surrounded if he didn’t have something in mind.

  Alchiq stopped a pace away from the ugly Mongol’s horse and stood there, hands raised. “What will it be?” he asked. “Do I summon the Blue Wolf or not?”

  The ugly one chewed on his lip for a moment, weighing his options. His eyes flicked to Gansukh once or twice, but since Gansukh hadn’t moved, the ugly one saw no answer to his dilemma. Behind him, the two pairs of riders slowed, sensing there was no need to keep circling.

  The ugly one turned his head to speak to his companion with the bow. “Put—” he started.

  As soon as his eyes left Alchiq, the old hunter darted forward. He slapped the nose of the Mongol’s pony, which stepped back and reared. The ugly Mongol tried to stay in the saddle, but Alchiq kept moving, grabbing him by the jacket and hauling him out of the saddle. The second Mongol fumbled with his arrow, but by the time he got it nocked and the string pulled back, Alchiq had control of the ugly Mongol. He crouched behind the man, his knife at his throat. The bowman paused, trying to decide if he had a clear shot.

  Gansukh cleared his throat loudly, trying to get the bowman’s attention. The nervous archer didn’t want to look, but he saw enough out of the corner of his eyes to finally look at Gansukh.

  Gansukh had his own bow out and ready too. His arrow was pointed straight at the bowman’s chest. He had a very clear shot.

  The other four Mongols had their bows up and drawn too, and Gansukh noted that if everyone released their arrows, he and the first bowman would probably be the first ones to die. He held his bow steady, but he could feel a bead of sweat start trickling down the left side of his face.

  “Now,” Alchiq said without a touch of malice or threat in his voice. “Let’s go over your options again. You may give us your horses or you may take us to your captain.” He tightened his grip on the ugly man’s jacket, and the man gasped as the knife pressed harder against the soft flesh of his throat. “You boys are too stupid to be out here on your own. I want to talk to someone smarter. Someone who will listen to what I have to tell him.”

  “I—” The ugly Mongol swallowed nervously and tried to pull his throat away from Alchiq’s knife. “We’ll take you,” he said when Alchiq relaxed his pressure. “He’s close. He’s very close.”

  “Good,” Alchiq said. “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said so far. You might yet live.”

  The camp was like many other camps Gansukh had seen over the years. The horses were corralled together in one herd and the center of the camp was defined by three large fires but the rest was a sprawling disorganized mess. He tried to count tents and gave up after he reached forty, and there was no point in trying to ascertain the size of the force by counting horses. Each man would have several. If he tried to judge the number of riders by a head count of the horses, he would be woefully off in his estimate.

  They circled the camp until they were on the side closest to the horses, and the ugly Mongol led them up to a pair of younger men who were in charge of the herd. The scouting party dismounted, and one of the young men looked expectantly at the ugly Mongol who shrugged as he glanced at Alchiq and Gansukh.

  Gansukh slid off his horse and approached the young man. He didn’t have much left in his pouch, but he offered the boy a few coins. “Water them, please,” he asked, “and let them roam a bit. But not too far.”

  The boy nodded as he made the coins disappear. The Mongol scouts wandered off, heading for the southern portion of the camp. Alchiq clambered down from his horse and studiously made no attempt to talk with the boy. As he and Gansukh followed the scouts, he adjusted his sword in his belt and glared at Gansukh. “It’s an insult for them to not offer to take care of our horses,” he said. “Court life has made you soft, boy.”

  “Court life has taught me civility,” Gansukh replied. “You’re the one who put a knife to his throat. He’s got his own insults to swallow. He’ll take it out on you as he can.” When Alchiq continued to grumble, Gansukh grabbed his arm and made him stop. “He wants you to pull the knife again. Or worse, your sword. He’ll have witnesses. It will be justified. You have no friends in this camp.”

  “And you’d just stand there?” Alchiq snarled.

  “Yes,” Gansukh said. “Because I don’t want to die a fool’s death.”

  “No one is going to die today,” Alchiq said.

  “Did the Blue Wolf whisper that to you?” Gansukh asked. “Old Nine Fingers.”

  Alchiq jerked his arm out of Gansukh’s grip and stalked after the other Mongols. Gansukh rubbed his face for a moment and then followed, half-certain that Alchiq was completely wrong.

  The camp was a war party. Gansukh saw no sign of children or women. The tents were small, and there was only one ger and it was clearly their destination. They picked up quite a few of the other occupants of the camp as they walked, and by the time, they reached the ger, Gansukh estimated there were more than thirty men following them.

  The leader of the party was a tall Mongol with a thick black beard and quick brown eyes. Hawk feathers were woven into his long hair, and most of the fingers on his left hand bore rings. He was listening to the ugly Mongol’s report with a tiny smile on his lips, and his eyes tracked Alchiq and Gansukh as they walked across the shallow field in front of the ger.

  “I am Totukei,” he said when the scout finished his report. “This is my jaghun.” He pointed at Gansukh. “Is he your arban?”

  Alchiq glanced around at the crowd, and Gansukh noticed his lips were moving as he did a quick head count. “Your jaghun is like my arban,” Alchiq said eventually. “Smaller than it should be, but I am certain it more than makes up for that deficit in its bravery and strength of arms.” He nodded to Totukei, clasping his hands together, fingers of his left hand over his right fist. “I am Alchiq, once of Clan Hupti, but my clan has been scattered. We are steppe people, now and forever.”

  “And your man?” Totukei asked.

  “I am Gansukh,” Gansukh said. “Before I was Chagatai Khan’s man
, I served with Batu Khan during his conquest of Rus.”

  “Batu and Chagatai,” Totukei said. “You are far from home, Gansukh.”

  “Like my companion, my home is the open steppe.”

  “If you are home whenever you are beneath Eternal Blue Heaven, then you do not need a destination, do you? Are you just roaming these plains like wolves without a clan?”

  “A wolf without a clan is dangerous,” Alchiq said. “Who knows who it might try to bite.”

  “That is true,” Totukei said. “My cousin says you struck his horse.”

  Cousin, Gansukh thought. That explains a great deal.

  “Of the two, the horse was more likely to respect my fist,” Alchiq said.

  Gansukh felt like he should say or do something before the situation got even further out of hand, but short of knocking Alchiq down and sitting on his head, he wasn’t sure what he could do. And, like Alchiq said, who knew who the wolf might try to bite.

  But Totukei just laughed. “I know you are not here to fight me or my family, Alchiq Old Wolf. You want something from me. That is what all this posturing is about. Let us set all this bluster aside and talk honestly. What do you want from me?”

  “How many men do you have?” Alchiq said without missing a beat.

  “Seven arban. Maybe eight,” Totukei replied, equally businesslike.

  “How many in the group we seek?” Alchiq asked Gansukh.

  “Seven,” Gansukh replied, even though he knew Alchiq was well aware of the number of Skjaldbrœður.

  “You don’t have enough men,” Alchiq said.

  Many of the crowd joined Totukei in laughing at the old hunter, who waited patiently for their humor to drain away. “When I last encountered those we seek, they numbered eleven,” Alchiq said. “I had a jaghun at my command. I lost more than half of my men.”

  “That is impossible,” Totukei snorted. “Warriors of such prowess don’t exist. With all due respect, Alchiq Old Wolf, your storytelling skills do not match your bluster.”