Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4)

by Joseph Brassey

  Raphael felt another arrow stick in his maille, high enough on his back that he knew Alchiq was aiming for his head, and he stopped worrying about Feronantus. The old man could take care of himself. He darted to his right, spinning wildly on the ice as he fumbled for his mace in its sling at his waist. Alchiq’s horse was nearly upon them, and he didn’t even bother gripping the mace solidly. He simply pulled it out of its sling and threw it at the horse’s head. The heavy missile struck the horse’s withers and the beast stumbled once.

  It was enough.

  The horse lost its footing on the ice and went down, throwing off Alchiq’s aim. The Mongol tumbled out of the saddle, and both Vera and Raphael charged at the sprawling man, drawing their swords as they ran across the ice.

  Alchiq came up to one knee with his bow, an arrow still nocked. Raphael tried to skid to a stop and change direction, but all he managed to do was slide across the ice, straight at Alchiq. With a wicked grin, the Mongol loosed the arrow and Raphael felt a heavy punch in the stomach. He was knocked off balance and as he fell onto his side, he saw Vera descend upon the crouched Mongol, her sword flashing.

  He swept his bow up, intercepting her downward stroke. The bow split in his hands, fouling her strike, and he rolled forward, letting go of the mess his bow had become. Vera’s sword tangled in the horn, wood, and sinew, and as she tried to clear her weapon, Alchiq was on his feet, slashing at her with his curved sword.

  She twisted and would have parried his sword had her feet not slid out from beneath her. Her swing went wide, and Raphael heard the grating sound of metal against metal as Alchiq’s sword slid across her mailled hip.

  He struggled to get up, pulling at the arrow sticking out of his maille. A stab of pain lanced up from his belly, and he stared down at the arrow. It had penetrated his maille. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the shaft with both hands and snapped it off, much like Feronantus had done with the arrow in his neck. The pain increased for a moment as he broke the shaft, but it subsided quickly, which told him the wound was not deep.

  Vera was still off balance and Alchiq shoved her, knocking her off her feet. He didn’t bother chasing her down, and after sparing a quick glance at Raphael, he spun on the ice and went for Feronantus.

  Wielding the Spirit Banner like a quarterstaff, Feronantus caught Alchiq under the chin with the end, lifting the Mongol clear off the ice and sending him flying. Raphael heard the sharp click of Alchiq’s teeth slamming together, and there was blood on the Mongol’s mouth when he landed on the ice.

  Raphael scrambled toward him, and Alchiq squirmed away like a spider as Raphael slammed his sword down, throwing up a spray of icy shards. Alchiq spun on his ass, lunging with his sword at Raphael’s ankles, and Raphael knocked his sword away. He sliced down again, and this time he connected with Alchiq’s thigh.

  Alchiq howled, and bright blood spurted across the ice. The Mongol sat up, swinging his sword at Raphael’s nearby arm. Raphael tried to pull his sword back, but it stuck—either in the ice or Alchiq’s leg, he couldn’t be sure—and so he let go of his weapon entirely to avoid being hit.

  Vera appeared at his side, and she kicked Alchiq’s arm back as he tried to swing at her. She swept her sword up in a vicious stroke, catching him just below the elbow. Alchiq screamed again, and there was even more blood on the ice as well as a hand still clutching a curved sword. Vera lifted her foot and stomped down heavily, twice, and Alchiq stopped screaming.

  Feronantus rested against the Spirit Banner and when the screaming stopped, he roused himself from the stupor that had been stealing over him. In the distance, he could still hear the sound of the battle and, peering across the expanse of ice that separated him from the general melee, he gauged the state of the battle.

  The Livonians were still on the ice, but they were beginning to push back toward the shore again. It is time, he thought, and wearily pushed himself upright.

  He didn’t know what words he was supposed to say or if he should compose his mind in any special manner, and so he merely thought of Maria. He recalled walking with her through the forest in England, before he had taken the course of life that would bring him to this frozen lake and this moment, and the memory comforted him.

  He lifted the Banner up to his knees and slammed it down against the ice. Nothing happened, and so he did it again, struggling to clear his mind of any confusion, of any uncertainly that this was not the right choice. He had seen this lake. He knew there was power in the Spirit Banner. He had felt it time and again since he had first picked it up in the Mongolian forest. The stick had been cold to his touch since Istvan’s death and the fiery explosion in the depression, but he knew there was still magic in the staff.

  There had to be, otherwise his life had been spent striving for something that did not exist. It was faith, pure and simple, that the world was stranger than any of them suspected.

  He had seen the tree. He knew that it had flourished once. Just as he knew the staff had been cut from the tree, carried over the generations by men who had benefited from the radiant power in it. They may not have understood its power, and he didn’t claim to understand it either, but he believed in it.

  The staff slammed into the ice again, and still nothing happened.

  He leaned against it, his hands shaking. He felt tears starting at the corners of his eyes, and at the back of his mind a tiny worm of doubt started to wiggle. Had he been wrong? Had he imagined everything?

  A drop of blood splashed on the ice beside the butt of the Spirit Banner. He stared at it, wondering where it had come from, and then he remembered being hit by the Mongol arrow. He touched at the piece of broken wood sticking out of his neck and examined the blood on his fingers. Frowning, he put aside the distraction of the wound and gripped the Spirit Banner again.

  The wood moved in his hand.

  Of course, he thought. Blood requires blood.

  He let go of the Spirit Banner, which remained upright on the ice, and using one hand as a brace, he gripped the slippery shard of wood in his neck.

  “Feronantus!”

  He paused. Raphael and Vera were standing nearby, and Raphael was holding out his hands, shaking his head. “Leave it,” Raphael said. “I’ll get it later. You’ll just bleed more.”

  “I know,” Feronantus said. “It has to be done. The old must give way to the new.”

  “Stop,” Raphael shouted as Feronantus pulled heavily, tearing the broken arrow out of his body. Vera grabbed Raphael, holding him back.

  Raphael was right. Blood spattered onto the ice and blood ran down his maille, soaking his gambeson underneath. His vision darkened and he grabbed the Spirit Banner for support.

  The ice rolled beneath his feet.

  He raised his head and looked at Raphael. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If the order is to survive, you must know what is at stake. It is not merely the people of the world, but the world itself. Blood and branch, Raphael, we must defend it all.” He lifted the Spirit Banner—the last branch of the old tree—and slammed it once more against the ice.

  Someone screamed. He wasn’t sure who. It might have been him. The ice buckled beneath the staff, twisting and shivering. He clutched the staff with all his might, his hands slippery with blood, and he slammed it down one last time.

  He saw, stretching out from the point where the tip of the staff touched the ice, a series of twisting roots. They shot away from him, cracking and shattering the ice in an explosion of white light. Closing his eyes, he still saw the roots, burned forever into his memory.

  She was there, standing beside him, coaxing him to let go of the blood-slick staff, whispering to him that it was time to let go. Her wings were made from thousands of iridescent feathers. When he looked at her face, he wept, knowing he had done the right thing even though it was going to bring pain to those he loved.

  EPILOGUE:

  NEW GROWTH

  The ice had shattered in a long wide arc, a triangular shape with its vertices at the edge of the shore
where the Skjalddis shield-wall had held the Livonians, the point where Feronantus had struck the ice, and a final point in the midst of the northern bowl of the lake. The area was filled with floating bergs and frothy water, and there was no way of knowing for certain how many had been lost in the lake. At the very least, the bodies of all the dead had been claimed by the water.

  Raphael wept when he learned that Illarion was one of the fallen. His tears dried up when he was told that Kristaps was gone as well.

  The surviving Skjalddis helped Raphael and Vera gather wood for the pyre, and they built a long shelf upon which they laid Feronantus. They laid the Spirit Banner next to him, and neither Raphael nor Vera commented on how shriveled and emaciated the stick had become since the ice had shattered.

  Alexander spoke first, giving a eulogy to all of those who had fought gallantly, giving their lives for Rus and Novgorod. He said nothing about the miracle that had swallowed the enemy, and judging by the stony expressions on the faces of those assembled at Feronantus’s pyre, there was nothing that needed to be said. They all knew what had happened and who was responsible.

  Vera spoke next, and she gave a moving eulogy for those sisters who had fallen in battle. It was the way they all hoped to be remembered, Raphael thought as he listened absently. He was still confused and angry at what had happened, and his mind struggled to find a rational explanation for what he had seen.

  But the only explanation that made any sense was not rational.

  He realized Vera had finished her speech. Everyone was looking at him, and as he gazed back at their faces, seeing their expressions of hope and fear and wonder, he couldn’t fathom what he would say to them that would make them understand. What words would give them comfort? What words would ease the pain and fear in his heart?

  “My name is Raphael,” he started. “I was born in Acre, which is a place far away from here. In the Holy Land. I never knew my father, and my childhood was filled with the endless threat of yet another army deciding it had claim to Jerusalem. I was born in a land soaked in blood, and I grew up hoping that someday the fighting would be over.” He laughed bitterly, his cheeks wet with tears. “Feronantus, who lies here, accused me of being faithless, of being unable to let myself believe in something greater than myself, but that’s not true. I do believe in something. It is hope. A hope that every time we pick up a sword instead of a plow that it will be the last time. That our shields will grow dusty hanging over our hearths, and that our lives can be spent planting and harvesting crops instead of burying our friends and family.”

  He turned to Alexander’s brother, who was holding the long-handled torch. He took it from Andrei and stepped up to the pyre where Feronantus lay, his hands laid over his chest.

  “Those who fell today gave their lives for us. Let us honor their memories by loving each other. Let us live off this land, breathe this air, fish this lake when the summer comes, because that is the great gift given to us by God, the Virgin, and our dead companions. Let us live, my friends, and in living, keep alive our hope for a world made better by our presence in it.”

  He thrust the torch into the oil-soaked branches of the pyre, and flames sprang up with a noisy rush. The wet wood hissed and popped, but the flames would not be deterred. A thick column of white smoke boiled out of the wood, obscuring Feronantus, and the fire crackled loudly as it grew in size.

  Vera touched his arm, lightly pulling him away from the burning pyre. “Come,” she said gently. “Before the ice melts.”

  “Good bye, old friend,” Raphael said. He tossed the torch onto the pyre, and he and Vera walked back to the shore with Alexander and the others.

  From the safety of solid ground, they watched the pyre burn. The flames licked and cavorted about the wood, savoring the meal they had been given, but as they grew in size and heat, the ice melted. One end of the pyre tilted up, the flames hissing in anger as the cold water of the lake quenched them. The rest of the flames seemed to grow brighter and taller, and the column of smoke thickened. Then, with a sudden lurch, the pyre twisted and disappeared, leaving nothing but a wide gash in the ice. For a moment, Raphael thought he could see the orange of the flames through the ice of the lake, as if the fire fought back against the cold embrace of the water. The cloud of white smoke drifted into the darkening sky.

  “It will be cold tonight,” the prince said, gazing up at the clear sky. “Come. Let us celebrate. We are still alive, and that means we can huddle together and curse this endless winter.” He smiled at the ragged cheer his words elicited from the assembled company, and as people started to wander off toward the camp, he paused beside Raphael and Vera. “They were extraordinary men, both of them,” he said, referring to Feronantus and Illarion. “They will become more extraordinary in the telling of what happened here today. They left behind no families, and so the stories of who they were and what they did will be how they will be remembered.”

  Raphael nodded, and after a moment, the prince offered a knowing smile to Vera and left, leaving the pair alone on the shore of Lake Peipus.

  She stood next to him, her hand finding his. He knew he should say something, that he should go after Alexander and join the survivors in their celebration of life. It was what he had exhorted them all to do, after all.

  “You held me back,” he said eventually. It wasn’t an accusation nor was it entirely a question. “I could have stopped him.”

  “From doing what?” she asked quietly. “Pulling out the arrow or breaking the ice?”

  “Both,” Raphael said. “Neither.” He sighed. “I don’t know. But you knew, didn’t you? You knew what he was going to do.”

  Vera lifted her shoulders slightly. “One of my sisters, Nika, has been visited—several times—by the witch of old Rus. Baba Yaga. She came to Illarion too.”

  “Baba Yaga?” Raphael shook his head. “She’s a story meant to frighten children so that they behave. Listen to your mother, dear child, or Baba Yaga will come in the night and steal you away. Fairy tale nonsense.”

  “The stories are wrong,” Vera said. “She doesn’t steal children; she protects them. She protects all of Rus. She’s one of us, but she’s not part of the world we know. Not anymore.”

  “And you think that is what happened to Feronantus? He became part of the world beyond our mortal being?”

  “Of course he did,” she said gently, nodding toward the bare lake.

  “I don’t understand,” Raphael said.

  “The world moves in cycles, Raphael. More than the simple turn of the seasons. Far grander cycles that reach past our meager lives. What is new becomes old and is buried or burned or lost, and from that loss comes something new again. Do you remember Yasper’s firebird? Whence did he summon that creature? How did he create such a thing?”

  “It was a trick of the light,” Raphael said. “You’ve seen what he can do with colored smoke and flash fires. It was nothing more than an illusion.”

  “And today? Was that an illusion?”

  “I…I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “Why are you smiling at me?” he asked, noting her expression.

  She wiped at her cheeks and offered him a tiny laugh. “Hope is a tiny seed,” she said. “It must be carefully nurtured, but it can grow into something splendid. In time.” She linked his arm in his. “We have time.”

  From the wood, Nika watched Raphael and Vera as they left the shore of the lake. She waited until they were out of sight before she left the shadows of the trees and made her way down to the icy shore. She hesitated to go farther; the memory of nearly falling into the shattering ice was still strong in her head.

  She walked along the shore, her eyes scanning the trunks of the trees along the verge of the forest for Baba Yaga’s marks. When she spotted the twin gashes, she left the shore and returned to the forest, wending her way along a narrow deer path.

  The prince’s army would celebrate through the night and tomorrow they would begin to break camp, the militia disbanding as the peasants
returned to their villages. The remaining Skjalddis, of whom there were but a mere handful, would remain with Nevsky, presumably filling out the decimated ranks of his Druzhina. The prince had won a victory that would be celebrated for generations to come, and the people of Rus would flock to him in droves. A dynasty had been created, here at Peipus, raised upon a foundation of the corpses of her sisters and companions. Even so, Nika was not bitter. Battles always claimed lives, and Illarion had gone to this fight with death in his eyes and a readiness to face what came after.

  Nika was ready too. Her absence would not be noted. She had not reported back after the battle ended, and would likely be counted among the dead. None of her sisters had seen the same signs that she had, and she had known all along what would be asked of her once the battle was over.

  At last, she came to a small clearing. She expected to find a fire, watched over by three skulls, but instead she discovered a small hut that sat crookedly on a pile of thick sticks. Instead of a door, there was merely a heavy curtain, and pushing aside the wool drape, she clambered into the hut.

  Inside, there was a table, a chair, a narrow bed, several chests, and a tiny hearth in which a bed of coals offered a lambent glow. There was no one else in the hut, and she put several heavy sticks from the bin beside the hearth onto the fire, leaning over and blowing on the coals until a thin flame started to lick the kindling.

  There was an old shawl thrown over the back of the chair, and as the fire slowly started to warm the tiny hut, Nika stripped off her filthy maille. She threw the shirt into the corner of the hut, followed by her sword and scabbard. She sat down in the chair and pulled off her boots. Reaching over her shoulder, she grabbed the shawl and pulled it over her. Stretching out her legs so that her bare feet were close to the fire, she settled down in the chair to wait.

  I’ll just take a short nap, she thought as her eyes drooped. She’ll be here when I wake up.