Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4)

by Joseph Brassey

  And then there had been the young pony, Gansukh. The emissary from Ögedei’s brother, who had come to Karakorum to put an end to the Khagan’s drinking. She never would have guessed that this unrefined hunter would become her lover and sometime protector.

  Beneath her furs, she slipped a hand inside her robe and felt for the tiny lacquer box tucked in an inside pocket. It soaked up heat from her body; on nights like this one, it felt warmer even, as if it was generating heat for her. Gansukh had pressed it into her hands shortly before he had left with the Khagan on Ögedei’s fateful hunt, and she had kept it with her when she had made her daring escape.

  The theft had been an odd moment of sentimentality, and she still wondered why she had taken it. Did he mean that much to her? It was a preposterous idea, really. She was a Chinese woman, an escaped slave, and she was fleeing Mongolia, China—all of the east. She was heading into the west, like one of the characters from the folk tales she had heard as a child. A lost soul, wandering into the unknown. She had no idea what lay ahead of her, though she knew what was behind her—beyond the snow-capped mountains.

  Death.

  She had turned her back on death. She clutched the box and her robe in her hand, and tried not to pay much attention to the howling wind. Another storm was coming. The company wasn’t very sheltered, and the tent was, truly, rather flimsy. She should have been more worried about freezing; her life, so recently renewed and reinvigorated, might be stripped away by the wind.

  Lian felt so sleepy—her hand was warm, her breasts were warm. The wind howled outside the tent, but it couldn’t come any closer. It’ll pass, she thought fleetingly, falling into a dream of lush greenery.

  1242

  VESNA

  CHAPTER 4:

  VOLQUIN’S DRAGON

  The frigid waters of the Velikaya River lapped against the hull as the rowers brought the boat closer to the shore. It was early morning, and the first touch of the sun had raised a layer of fog that extended past the banks of the river. Fortunately, there were men standing on the shore, suggesting the limit of how far the boat could travel. They wore white tunics stained with mud and stitched with black crosses that seemed to float in the morning light. Black, not red, thought Kristaps, frowning. Black was the color worn by the members of the Order of Teutonic Knights of Saint Mary’s Hospital in Jerusalem, while he, along with the men in the boat, was a member of the Livonian Brothers of the Sword—wearers of the red cross.

  It was a reminder of how far his order had fallen. First, Schaulen, and then the disaster at Hünern where they had lost their second grandmaster, Dietrich von Grüningen. The remnants of the Livonian order had been forced to seek sanctuary in the ranks of the Teutonic knights, and had it not been for the intercession of Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi, Kristaps would have abandoned the Livonian order entirely.

  What use, he had asked the cardinal, is an order that cannot serve God by the strength of its might? What fools were they to offer their faith and devotion to an ideal so aged and weak that it could not defend itself?

  Such an order has no use to us, the cardinal had replied. An order’s usefulness lies not in the words spoken by its master, but in the actions of the man and those who follow him.

  The cardinal’s words were uppermost in Kristaps’s mind as the keel of the boat ground against the shore—those who follow—and Kristaps dropped out of the prow and into the sand, one hand adjusting his sword to keep the scabbard from brushing the water. He saw the eyes of the men on the shore take in his attire, and he noted the ones who gave little starts of surprise. Would they follow? he wondered.

  “Who commands here?” he demanded, fixing the nearest man with a hard stare. The man flinched, and Kristaps fought the urge to strike the man across the mouth with his hand.

  “Her…Hermann of Dorpat…” the man said. His tone grew stronger as he spoke, as if his spine was stiffening with each word. “Who are you, sir, to be asking?”

  “I come from Rome with a message for your master,” Kristaps said, ignoring the man’s question. He was a head taller than the other man, and as he stepped closer, he stared over his head as if the Teutonic knight were nothing more than a mere peasant—as if all of the men wearing the black cross were nothing. Not far from the beach, the walls of Pskov rose out of the fog as if the Novgorodian city were floating on a cloud. Atop the wall, the pennant of the Teutonic order snapped in the crisp wind.

  “You, sir—” the man began.

  Kristaps cut him off. “I am Kristaps, First Sword of Fellin,” he snapped, pitching his voice so that all of the men on the beach could hear him, “and, by the grace of God and His representative in Rome, the Grandmaster of the Livonian Order of Sword Brothers.”

  He was delighted to see the effect of his words—not just his name, but his new title as well. After the defeat at Schaulen, most of the Sword Brothers had given up the red for the black and he knew some of those cowards had ended up here, in Rus, fighting to expand the holdings of the Teutonic order. Other former members of the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae, however, would relish the chance to reclaim the red. As word spread of his presence, they would rally around him.

  Hermann of Dorpat, the Prince-Bishop of Riga, was a longtime friend of the Livonian order, and despite the order’s recent spate of ill fortune, Kristaps knew he had at least one ally in these lands. A competent ally. The sooner these Teutonics were willing to follow him, the sooner he could accomplish the will of Rome.

  And reclaim the honor of his order.

  A second man stepped forward, his tone much more contrite and apologetic. “Forgive us, Heermeister,” he said, dipping his head. “Word had not yet reached us of your elevation. What of…” He paused, whether unwilling to speak the name of the previous grandmaster or unaware of it, Kristaps wasn’t sure.

  “Heermeister Dietrich fell victim to a foul betrayal,” he said curtly. “One I mean to avenge.”

  Neither man said anything, and Kristaps marched past the rank of Teutonic knights who had come to greet him and his men. He fixed his gaze on the walls, setting his mind to the task ahead of him. The campaign of the north was his responsibility now, and only after he was successful would he have the resources to accomplish his true mission: the utter destruction of the Shield-Brethren.

  It was remarkable how intact Pskov was, given what it had endured. Rus had been weakened terribly by the invasion of the Mongol horde, and as the armies of the Khagan moved west, the destruction of each city was like another cut on a body already mortally wounded. When the Khagan died, the horde had returned east, trampling what tiny seedlings of hope had managed to break the hard ground of the steppes. Rus was, in Rome’s opinion, malleable—ready to be brought more firmly under the yoke of the Church.

  The cardinal had not told Kristaps all of Rome’s plans, but he had an inkling of the machinations taking place in the wake of the battle at Hünern. At first, the retreat of the Mongol horde had been linked to the death of Onghwe Khan and the dissolution of his Circus of Swords, and the wild tales that had accompanied him on his journey to Rome had sung the praises of the Shield-Brethren, which was impressive, given the fervent pace he had set. Stories of Andreas, Rutger, and the rest of the Rose Knights haunted his every waking moment. Never mind that Andreas had been dead before the final battle had begun, and that the Shield-Brethren would have been crushed if it had not been for Kristaps’ men and the other martial orders at Hünern.

  Later, when he was in Rome, word arrived that the true reason for the withdrawal of the Mongol forces was the death of the Khan of Khans. A hunting accident, the report said.

  And Kristaps had found himself wondering again what Feronantus and the other Shield-Brethren had been doing when he had seen them in Kiev.

  The cardinal had been intrigued by Kristaps’s story of what had happened in Kiev the previous summer. Like Kristaps, he wondered if the Shield-Brethren had had something to do with the Khagan’s accident. If such a supposition were true, then the fame of
the Shield-Brethren would only increase much more dramatically if rumors were given leave to spread.

  We need a victory of our own, the cardinal had said. We need the appearance of strength—if not the actuality of it.

  “This does not look like a city that was taken by force,” he noted as he strode along the main road of Pskov. He saw no burned houses, no sign that barricades had been set up or taken down.

  The second man who had spoken to him at the beach trotted along beside him, trying to keep up with Kristaps’s long stride. “When we came, they met us in the field,” the man explained. “Six hundred men. The bulk of their militia. Few of them had maille, and most had never really fought a pitched battle before. The battle was…” The man gasped for air. “It was over quickly.”

  Kristaps made a noise of approval. At least the taking of Pskov had been handled well. A permanent settlement that could serve as their compound made the rest of the campaign easier. They would not have to waste time and resources providing for the basic essentials for the men. He could focus on finding and defeating his enemy.

  The Novgorodian Prince, Alexander Iaroslavich, whom the locals called Nevsky, was somewhere in the wilderness. The curious rumors he had heard during his river journey to Pskov said that the people’s savior wandered the wilds with his sworn swords, preparing to return in force to drive out the invaders.

  It was the sort of fanciful nonsense that made Kristaps want to burst into fits of derisive laughter when he overheard the whispered talk among the local citizens, but the stories were not to be disregarded entirely. Common folk were wont to sing merrily of their heroes—such songs gave them hope after all—but every story had some truth to it, and he had to pick out these little details so as to gain a better understanding of the man whom he had to defeat.

  At the end of the street was a sprawling structure that was too small to be a castle and too grand to be a wealthy landowner’s estate. More men wearing the white and black of the Teutonic Knight loitered out in front, looking more bored than alert. Eventually they noticed Kristaps approaching and snapped to a modicum of readiness.

  Kristaps stopped before these men, eyeing each one in turn. His escort, panting slightly from the brisk walk, caught up with him, and he waited for the man to catch his breath. “He’s here to see the Prince-Bishop,” the escort wheezed.

  No one moved, and so Kristaps stepped forward, intent on opening the door to the house himself, but one of the Teutonic knights took a step to his left, blocking Kristaps’s progress. Kristaps stared at the man, calmly watching his face for any sign of what he might do next. “You’re in my way,” he said quietly.

  “You’re wearing the wrong colors,” the Teutonic sneered. “The Sword Brothers are no more. Not since Sch—”

  That was as far as he got before Kristaps’s hand smashed into his mouth. The man staggered back, blood flowing from his lips, eyes wide with shock. Other guards started to draw their swords, and Kristaps had already put his hand on the hilt of his blade when his escort—having regained his breath—started shouting. “Stop! Stop!”

  When he had everyone’s attention, the escort explained. “He’s the Heermeister of the Livonian Order,” he said. “Here on orders from Rome. Let him pass.”

  The guards relented, but didn’t sheathe their swords entirely until the escort repeated his last sentence again. The bloodied man glared at Kristaps, but lowered his gaze when Kristaps took a step in his direction. He got out of the way, and Kristaps approached the door without further mishap.

  They’ll learn, he thought as the door opened. My way will be the only way.

  He would not make the same mistakes as his predecessors. He could lead these men to glory, but only if they feared him. Otherwise, like the men he had met this morning, they wouldn’t follow orders without questioning them. He needed soldiers, not self-styled tacticians.

  The Prince-Bishop of Riga sat in a study at the back of the estate. A fire burned in the hearth, and its light made the sparsely furnished room appear empty and cavernous. A crude tapestry depicting a trio of horsemen chasing a pair of stiff-legged deer hung on the wall to the left of the door. Hermann of Dorpat bent over a narrow desk, reading scraps of parchment and linen by the firelight. Kristaps stood quietly by the door, giving the Prince-Bishop an opportunity to notice him. His patience was not very generous, and after he tired of looking at the tapestry, he cleared his throat and crossed the room to stand in front of the desk.

  Hermann of Dorpat looked up from his reading. His eyes possessed an energy one did not often see in quiet church men, and a keen look to his sharp features that bespoke reservation and competence. He had the broad shoulders of a man who had once wielded weapons or done difficult work, and the thick middle of a man grown used to eating well after many years. He examined Kristaps’s face intently, as if striving to mark the First Sword of Fellin firmly in his mind, and then his gaze fell to the red sword and cross on Kristaps’s tabard.

  “Ah,” he started with a tiny shake of his head. “So you have arrived.” His fingers dug through the messages on his desk. “I have it here somewhere. Yes, this one.” He held up a piece of parchment that carried the broken seal of Rome. “Well then, let me offer you congratulations on your elevation, Heermeister Kristaps.” He glanced down at the piece of parchment in his hands and his eyes quickly scanned the message written therein. “Welcome to Pskov. I pray you can serve God and the church with all the fervent skill of your predecessors, may they be blessed.”

  “I thank you,” Kristaps replied. He put his hands under his tabard and brought out the sealed message that had been given to him by the cardinal. He offered it to Hermann and stood back as the man took it and broke the red wax seal. As Hermann read the orders from Cardinal Fieschi, Kristaps listened to the popping and crackling noises coming from the fireplace.

  “I’m afraid I don’t entirely understand,” Hermann said with a sigh as he lowered the note. “Fellin is a long way from Pskov, as is much of Rome’s influence. What purpose is being served by putting you in charge of the northern campaign?” His fingers tapped against the edge of the letter. “I have matters well in hand here.”

  “With all due respect, our mutual benefactor disagrees,” Kristaps replied in a voice that restrained its irritation with curt politeness.

  Hermann glanced at the letter, turning it over to see if he had missed a critical paragraph. “I fail to see how that conclusion is reached by the scant sentences that this cardinal has written.”

  Kristaps leaned forward and gently pushed the message down. “Sometimes the messenger is as important as the message.”

  Hermann stared at Kristaps for a moment, a flush rising in his cheeks. His eyes darkened and Kristaps fought the urge to smile.

  “During your journey to Pskov, you may have noticed that winter has not quite released its hold on this land,” Hermann said coldly. “Spring comes late in Rus. Rome knows little about the difficulty of fielding an army during the cold season.”

  “That is why they sent me,” Kristaps reminded him. “It is the opinion of our mutual benefactor that the republic of Novgorod needs to be properly rescued in the wake of the Mongol invasion. There are many children of God who must be embraced before they succumb to heathen temptations. Before they are overwhelmed again by the devils from the steppes.”

  Hermann snorted. “Such flowery language to justify such military action,” he said. “Rome cares not for Rus or its people. It simply wants more wealth, and citizens under its protection will tithe to remain in the fold, won’t they?”

  Kristaps let the offhand remark slide over him, keeping his focus upon the man rather than the banter. “Our masters have their reasons, Your Grace,” he said, “but our place is to remember who is master and who is servant, who speaks for Holy God and who is obliged to obey. Our place is to follow orders.”

  “I note that this message lacks the explicit orders that you seem to be implying, Heermeister,” Hermann said. “But for the sake of a
rgument, I will at least indulge you. What would you do, were the command of this holy crusade in your hands?”

  “As I came to your estate, I saw how readily your men had taken Pskov, and I wondered why you hadn’t marched on Novgorod already if their militia were as poorly numbered as Pskov’s,” Kristaps said. “But then I heard stories of this man, Nevsky, and it all became clear to me.”

  “Nevsky has an army,” Hermann said.

  “And where is this army?” Kristaps asked. “In Novgorod?” He didn’t wait for Hermann to answer him because he really didn’t care to hear the Prince-Bishop’s excuses. “You shouldn’t be concerned about his army. It doesn’t matter if it is in Novgorod or if it is with him. It is the stories that should concern you. Tales of Nevsky’s exploits against foreign aggressors make him a beloved figure. He is the only hero the Ruthenians have left, and as long as he lives, they will not give up hope. If you strike at Novgorod without first slaying him, they will hold tight the dream of being liberated by their lost prince. Therefore, the most important task to be accomplished is the death of their savior.”

  Hermann considered this, his fingers lightly drumming on the desk. Kristaps took stock of the Prince-Bishop’s contemplative expression, and found the man’s thoughtfulness to be to his liking. Many were too proud—too aloof with their airs of being God’s servants—to truly contemplate the more unsavory requirements of performing God’s work, and they would shirk from doing what must be done.