When the hut lurched upward and began rocking back and forth, a smile drifted across her face but she didn’t stir.
Hermann was not terribly surprised to find a guest waiting for him at his estate in Dorpat. The campaign had ended in disaster, and he had struggled home with a fraction of the men he had departed with. Nevsky’s victory at the lake assured that Novgorod and its provinces would be safe for many years from any efforts to dominate them. The whole affair had been a dreadful waste, and he said as much as he entered his great hall. “What was the point of all that?” he sighed as he stripped off his cloak and gloves. “We could have taken Novgorod; we could have expanded Rome’s reach into the north. But we have squandered that opportunity now.”
His guest rose from the heavy chair he had been sitting in by the fire, and he limped toward Hermann. He was a narrow-faced man, and his beard and hair were streaked with gray. He wore simple clothing with no sigils, and there was a weariness in his gaze that Hermann knew all too well.
“Is he dead?” his guest asked. “And all of those who would follow him?”
“Aye,” Hermann sighed. A servant offered him a flagon of wine and he accepted it readily. It was good to be home again, out of the cold and away from the bitter campaign that had been a failure in so many ways. “The Ruthenians will be singing about this victory for years to come, but it is done. Kristaps is gone, and the last of those who remember Volquin’s ambition with him. The Livonian ranks have been purged; those who remain—” He broke off with a bitter laugh and quelled it with a large gulp of his wine.
“What?” his guest prompted him.
“You were not there,” Hermann said. “You did not see what happened.”
His guest stood close. “Tell me,” he said, his eyes glittering. “Tell me everything.”
Hermann did, and as he told the fantastic story of the breaking ice, he felt a resolute calm come over him, as if this news were a final reckoning of the task he had been set to perform. He was merely a tiny piece in a much grander puzzle, and he found an odd contentment in knowing his place. Some philosopher had once said that the wise man learns to win what he wants by appearing to lose what his enemy believes he wants. Hermann had never been more than God’s humble instrument, to be used how God’s agents saw fit, but even he could not help but wonder at the strangeness of it all.
“Excellent,” his guest said when he had finished. “And you are certain your men will tell this same story to anyone that asks?”
Hermann laughed. “I’m sure it will get even stranger before the summer. Nothing of what will be said will be true, but it will be all that anyone remembers.”
“Exactly,” his guest purred. “That is what my master hopes. It will give him all the excuse he needs to launch a purge against these heathen influences. It may seem like you lost a great battle today, but you will be compensated—exceptionally well—for your sacrifice. Rome is pleased.”
“What of the Livonians that survived?”
“Oh, you do not need to concern yourself with them.” The man limped to the long table and picked up a sealed letter he must have put there earlier. “I will be taking charge of those men.”
Hermann accepted the letter and broke the seal. His eyes tracked to the name signed with a heavy flourish at the bottom, and then he read the letter carefully, which revealed to him the name of his guest.
“So, Dietrich von Grüningen, you’re to be Heermeister again,” he said when he finished reading the letter from Cardinal Fieschi.
“Aye,” the man named Dietrich von Grüningen nodded. “I am. There is a final matter that must be settled with the Shield-Brethren.”
She was still getting used to the noise and stench of the market in Samarkand. The stalls were tightly packed in the alleys behind the stone buildings, and it was impossible to navigate the aisles without being jostled and bumped constantly. At first, she had hated the crowds and had refused to visit the chaotic marketplace, but after a few months of doing nothing but sitting inside their ger or watching their pair of goats slowly munch the short grasses nearby, she realized she would go stir-crazy if she didn’t acclimate herself to the cacophony of city life.
Plus she couldn’t stand the idea that, of the pair, she was the one who couldn’t handle civilization.
She was leaning against a booth, examining a bolt of light blue silk when she heard someone call her name. At first, she thought she had imagined it. The voice was familiar, but out of context, and not one she had ever expected to hear again. When he called her name again, she looked up, a sudden jolt of fear running up her spine.
And there he was, dressed in a plain robe like one of a thousand itinerant merchants who traveled through the city while on the Silk Road. His beard had been trimmed and shaped in the Persian style, and there was a weariness in his eyes that his smile did not dispel.
“Raphael,” she said, nervously tucking a stray strand of her long black hair behind her ear.
“God be with you, Lian,” Raphael said, clasping his hands together as he came up to the booth. “It is a marvel to see you again.”
“Yes,” she said. “Quite marvelous, especially in a city this size, and so far from where I saw you last many months ago. But not a coincidence, I suspect.”
Raphael glanced at the merchant standing behind the booth. “No, not a coincidence,” he said with a smile. “But it has taken me some time to find you. I have been searching along the Silk Road for months. In fact, this is the fourth day I’ve been wandering around in this market.”
“Is there a problem?” A new voice asked, speaking in Mongolian behind Lian.
Raphael’s eyes flickered over her shoulder. “There is no problem here,” he said smoothly in the same tongue. He raised his hands to show they were empty.
Lian turned slightly and put her hand on Gansukh’s chest. “It’s okay,” she said, holding him at bay. She could feel the tension in his chest. “Let him speak his piece.”
“Is this him?” Raphael asked, eying Gansukh carefully.
“Yes,” she said simply.
Gansukh made a noise in his throat, and she knew he had realized who Raphael was. “Skjaldbrœður,” he growled.
“Not here,” Raphael said. “Just a…friend.”
“No friend of mine,” Gansukh snarled.
“Maybe that is not the right word,” Raphael said hastily, “but I am not your enemy. Not anymore.”
“What do you want?” Lian asked, more harshly than she intended, but Gansukh’s apprehension was starting to bleed over to her.
“My master, Feronantus—you remember him, don’t you, Lian?—believed in something…I do not know the outcome of what he sought, or if such a dream could even be realized, but—”
Gansukh shifted behind her, and she knew that his hand was on the hilt of his knife.
Raphael knew it too, and he held up his hands once more. “Please, I mean you no harm. Truly.”
“Continue,” Lian said, suppressing a shiver that wanted to run up her back.
“He took something from you,” Raphael nodded. “Something more precious than…I think he believed it did not belong to your people, and I do not wish to argue the validity of that belief. The theft was his and his alone, but I have come to a vague understanding of his reasons. He took something ancient and tried to create something new with it, but I think he failed. He broke—” Raphael waved his hands as if he didn’t quite know the Mongolian words to express what he wanted to say. “Imagine a vast lake covered with ice. Animals cannot drink from the water because of the ice, nor can we catch fish in the lake. But once the ice breaks, then life can return to the lake. Do you understand?”
“It is the cycle of the seasons,” Gansukh said gruffly. “It happens every winter.”
“Yes, exactly. Now imagine that the entire world has been eclipsed by that winter—a strangely fallow period when nothing truly grows because it is waiting for the ice to be broken.”
“You want the sprig,” Lian said
.
Raphael closed his hands, and his expression held both hope and curiosity. “The sprig?”
Gansukh made as if to speak, but Lian touched him lightly on the chest to quell his words. “It came from the Spirit Banner. That was how I knew where Feronantus was. That was why we were drawn to him. And when I stayed behind with Gansukh, I felt more longing and despair than I thought possible for a group of people who were both my friends and enemies of the man I loved.”
“Yes,” Raphael said. “I guess that is what I am seeking.” He seemed relieved.
“You did not know that I had it,” she said.
“I hoped,” he said. “Cnán said you had a treasure you kept with you at all times, and yes, I suspected your awareness of Feronantus was tied to it.”
“Cnán?” Lian’s heart fluttered. “She lives?”
“Aye,” Raphael said. “Much to Yasper’s continued delight. I saw them both shortly before I began my quest along the Silk Road.”
Lian smiled. “I am glad to hear they are together.” She leaned against Gansukh.
Raphael’s smile faltered slightly. “I need the sprig, Lian,” he said. “I need to finish what Feronantus started.”
“I know,” she nodded. “I’ve known since…” She glanced down at her rounded belly, and carefully reached into her robe for the hidden pouch sewn into the lining. The lacquer box was there, where it always had been, except for the brief time when Gansukh had carried it after the battle on the steppe. She drew it out and slowly offered it to Raphael, who took it from her with great reverence.
He wanted to open it, but he swallowed the urge and tucked it away inside his robe. “Thank you,” he said, and when his hand came out again, he held a sheathed knife.
Lian sucked in a quick breath as Gansukh shoved her to the side.
Raphael held up the leather-covered knife to show that he meant no threat with it, and she saw that the knife’s handle was a piece of deer antler. “This isn’t mine,” Raphael said. “It was taken by accident. The boy meant…Well, it’s not true that he meant no harm, but he regrets this act of thievery.” Raphael extended the sheathed knife toward Lian and Gansukh.
“It isn’t mine either,” Gansukh said after a long moment. He draped his arm around Lian, his hand resting on her swollen belly.
Raphael looked at where Gansukh’s hand rested, and he turned toward the hovering merchant who had been wondering what manner of conversation was going on beside his booth. Raphael pointed at the silk that Lian had been admiring and wiggled the knife. The merchant made a face and held up his hands, rattling off a lengthy diatribe about the ridiculous state of affairs when he was expected to trade fine Persian silk for a handmade steppe rider’s knife. But he still took the blade from Raphael and pulled it partway out of the sheath to examine the blade. His patter changed when he saw the blade, and his eyebrows inched upward.
“For the child,” Raphael said. “It is a poor gift.”
Lian reached out and fondled the silk. “It is a fine gift,” she said quietly, her eyes filling with tears. “It reminds me of the open sky of the steppe.”
“Yes,” Raphael said. “Eternal Blue Heaven.”
Gansukh’s hand tightened on her belly.
HERE ENDS KATABASIS
A MEDIEVAL ERA NOVEL OF THE FOREWORLD SAGA
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
JOSEPH BRASSEY
To the Subutai team, who made this possible; to my beloved wife and son; to the lovely people at 47North; and to my brothers and sisters of Lonin League, Seven Swords Guild, and The HEMA Alliance—this one’s for you.
COOPER MOO
Thanks to Mark Teppo, who wrestled prose from multiple authors into submission while keeping the fight enjoyable. Thanks to Sir-Not-Appearing-In-This-Book, without whose leadership we wouldn’t be here. Thank you to Angus Trim and Joseph Brassey—it was an honor and a pleasure to work with you gentlemen again.
MARK TEPPO
My thanks to my fellow co-authors, who bravely went into uncharted territory and put together a great story. I’d also like to acknowledge Neal Stephenson, Greg Bear, Nicole Galland, and Erik Bear, who helped lay the foundations of the story that we’ve taken a step farther.
ANGUS TRIM
Thanks to Neal Stephenson for the encouragement and the opportunity.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Joseph Brassey lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, son, and two cats. In his spare time, he trains in, and teaches, Western martial arts to members of the armed forces. He has lived on both sides of the continental United States and has worked everywhere from a local newspaper to the frame-shop of a crafts store to the smoke-belching interior of a house-siding factory with questionable safety policies. Joseph was a co-author of The Mongoliad.
Cooper Moo is a Seattle-based writer of non-fiction humor and alternate history. In addition to being one of the seven authors of The Mongoliad, Cooper’s work has appeared in The Seattle Weekly and on Slate and BoingBoing. His autobiographical piece “Growing Up Black and White” was awarded Social Issues Reporting article of the year by the Society of Professional Journalists.
Mark Teppo has been the showrunner for the Foreworld Saga, and his contributions include co-authoring The Mongoliad as well as a number of the Foreworld SideQuests. He is the author of Lightbreaker, Heartland, Earth Thirst, and The Potemkin Mosaic.
Angus Trim is a skilled sword-maker and machinist who lives in the Pacific Northwest. He is adept in Western martial arts as well as tai chi sword form. His previous contribution to the Foreworld Saga is The Lion in Chains.
The Foreworld Saga continues in these other great titles from 47North!
Novels
The Mongoliad: Book 1
The Mongoliad: Book 2
The Mongoliad: Book 3
Katabasis
Foreworld SideQuests
Sinner
Dreamer
The Lion in Chains
The Shield-Maiden
The Beast of Calatrava
Seer
The Book of Seven Hands
The Assassination of Orange
Hearts of Iron
Tyr’s Hammer
Marshal vs the Assassins
Symposium (three-issue graphic serial)
The Dead God (three-issue graphic serial)
Find out more about the Foreworld Saga at foreworld.com.
Information about all of these titles and other forthcoming titles can also be found at http://foreworld.com/store.
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 38