He kept walking and the walls grew dark, slick with moss, and he stumbled more than once as the ground tilted downward. Soon the walls of his house were gone, and he was running through dank caves, surrounded by walls of black rock, veined with brown mud. He heard—with his right ear!—his son call out his name. Ilya, his son cried out, Ilya. He ran on, chasing the sound and he passed rooms that were familiar: the dark burial chambers of the Lavra, in Kiev; the ceremonial rooms beneath the mountain fortress, where the river ran.
But I have never been there, he thought, staggering to a stop. His tunic was soaked with sweat, and his face was wet with tears. He distinctly heard the roaring sound of an underground river, and wondered how he could have ever confused that sound with his son’s voice. It is only a dream.
A light bloomed, though from where he could not fathom, and he found himself in a large cavern. On the wall beside him was a carving of a man in maille, a flowered helm upon his head and another blossoming flower clutched to his breast. The figure lay upon a bower of branches, suspended high in a tree, and as he looked more closely at the carving, he realized some of the branches were actually roots of an enormous tree that was trapped in the stone.
He realized the cavern went back, beyond the tree caught in the stone, and as he wandered around the twisted confusion of stone and root, he found a supine body on the floor, dressed not unlike the figure carved into the wall. But the flower was missing from its chest; in fact, as he knelt beside the body he realized the corpse had no hands, and when he raised the ornate frontispiece of the helmet, he discovered the corpse had no face either.
He swore a vow, father.
His son was standing behind him, though it was not his son. Much as the landscape of Volodymyr had been both what it was and what it might be, so too was his son an amalgamation of the child he had known and the young man he had dreamed his son would grow up to be. He stood up, tears filling his eyes, and ran toward his phantom son, trying to gather the ghost into his arms. His arms closed around nothing, and he tripped over a root of the stone-bound tree and fell. He landed in a puddle that, as he tried to get up, grew deeper. He splashed in the pool, trying to find the bottom, which had suddenly dropped away from him. He turned, struggling to keep his head above water, and he saw a torrent flooding out from beneath the tree. A flood that swept up the faceless knight and roared over him—a sea of black and brown, all the way from the east to the west—and he choked on the water. His feet found some purchase, and he pushed himself upward, struggling to stay afloat.
He spotted her, crouching in the branches of the tree. The old crone, her stone leg still part of the wall. She watched him, her face twisted into a perverse grin, her eyes dancing with an unholy glee.
“Help me,” he managed, speaking the only words he ever said in any dream he had had since his family had been killed. Help me.
The flood continued, and he felt his feet slipping. He stretched out his arm, even though she was much too far away to reach him, and his arm was stained red by the water.
Help me.
Make this pact, not by words but by blood. Her voice echoed in his phantom ear. She leaned out of the tree, holding out a long stick, and as he reached for it, the stick twisted in her hands, becoming a sword with a glowing pommel. He grabbed at it anyway, and screamed as the red-hot metal seared into the flesh of his forearm.
You will die and live and die again, Ilya, the old crone said, until your tasks are done.
You will die and live and die again…
Illarion awoke violently, bathed in sweat, and he hunched over, hugging his arms to his belly—fighting the urge to vomit. A buzzing sound echoed in his head as if his skull was filled with angry bees, and he gasped and struggled for breath as the bees drifted out of his head, one by one, through the puckered scar of his right ear.
Once the bees had left, taking with them the remaining echoes of the old woman’s voice, the feelings of nausea passed as well, and Illarion gradually found the strength to sit up. His forearms still stung, but when he pushed back the sleeves of his tunic, he saw no marks on his flesh. No rings of scar tissue like those on Percival or Raphael or any of the other Shield-Brethren he had known. Because I never took the test, he thought.
He lay back on his bedding and stared at the peak of his tent. Pale rose light seeped through tiny gaps between the pieces of hide and canvas that were stitched together to make his tent, and he surmised it was just after dawn. Clear sky, he thought. Blue like—
He shook his head, disturbing that thought before it could be finished, and refocused his attention on the Shield-Brethren initiation. He had been to Týrshammar, the cold fortress in the northern seas, and had studied the martial arts there. Like other sons of boyars and princes, he had heard stories of the Shield-Brethren citadel—Petraathen, the rock of Athena—where the most promising of students were taken and initiated into the inner secrets of the order. But he had not taken that journey; he had come back to Rus instead.
Illarion threw off the blanket and heavy fur that had been half-covering him and got to his knees. The tent wasn’t tall enough to stand upright in, and the muscles in his lower back were already complaining—Nevsky’s army had traveled hard yesterday. He slipped his sweat-stained tunic off and found a relatively dry patch with which to wipe his face and neck. He dug through his saddlebags for a clean change of clothes and, once dressed, he crawled out of his tent.
Outside, the cold morning air was brisk but not as biting as it had been over the past week. They had come down from the mountains and were only a day’s march from Novgorod, taking refuge in the thick forests that served the twofold task of obscuring their numbers and affording some shelter from the winter wind.
Even though his city and family were gone, he was still a boyar, and the title afforded him a place in the hierarchy of the Kynaz’s camp. His tent should have been with the other knights, but for all his Ruthenian heritage, he was an outsider to Nevsky’s men. A ghost. An ill omen. And so he made his camp with the Shield-Maidens, which only added fuel to the stories being whispered about him. A revenant who hides among the witches.
Make this pact…
He pissed on the roots of a nearby fir tree. Afterward, he stared at the steam rising from the roots of the tree, rubbing at his right forearm. Nothing more than a dream, he thought.
He ducked back into his tent for his baldric and sword. Slinging the leather strap over his right shoulder and settling his sword against his hip, he strode toward the main camp, letting the smell of the cookfires guide him.
Warriors looked up from their trenchers as he passed, though most looked away if he glanced at them. He saw equal mixture of curiosity and fear, and the few who didn’t shy away from his gaze would stare at his sword. It wasn’t the finest blade Illarion had ever held, but most of the men-at-arms in Alexander’s army were using weapons that had been passed down from grandfather to father to son. Many carried the shorter blades preferred by the Vikings, and small shields were in abundance. Most of Alexander’s personal Druzhina were equally as well equipped as he—as were the Shield-Maidens. Some of the boyars had been trained in the west, and had the money and means to acquire their own kit. And there were others, grim-jawed men from the North—Varangians—like those who had fought in the service of Vladimir of Kiev long ago.
His hand was tight on the pommel of his sword as he walked, and when he heard the familiar clatter of wooden training weapons, he changed his course. His stomach was tight, and not from a lack of food. It was his head that needed aid—a different sort of sustenance.
He found them in a muddy space between tents, a patch of ground that had been trampled many times over. Two men were drilling with training weapons—wooden swords and simple shields—while another pair watched. A fifth man, circling the men at a safe distance, was barking advice at each fighter. The trainer—an oplo among the Shield-Brethren—was one of the tall Northmen, his blond hair and beard interspersed with braids. Illarion paused, watching
the two men batter each other with the wooden swords, not yet willing to make his presence known.
The younger of the two fighters checked a blow too slowly, and the stroke of his opponent’s sword collapsed his guard entirely, the edge of his shield slamming into his nose while the sword smashed against his head. The fighter collapsed, blood squirting from his nose, and the watching pair howled with laughter. As the other fighter, a horrified expression on his face, stepped forward to apologize to the downed man, the Northman kicked the still-standing man in the backside. “That was your opponent’s mistake,” he snapped. “Not yours. Never apologize for making the other man bleed.”
The second fighter, startled by the kick, started to stammer out a reply, thought better of it when he caught sight of the dark look on the Northman’s face; unsure of what to do next, he stood there, awkwardly holding his training weapons, as the wounded man struggled to stand. The pair were no longer laughing, silenced by a stern glare from the trainer, but they were still smirking. The wounded man wiped at his nose and stared at the blood on his hand as if he couldn’t quite believe its source.
“You find this entertaining?” the trainer asked. At first, Illarion thought he was referring to the pair of watchers, but then he realized the Northman was looking directly at him.
“Aye,” Illarion said, realizing that strange sensation on his face was his mouth trying to form a smile.
The Northman grunted in reply, and then proceeded to wrest the wooden swords out of the hands of the students. He threw one at Illarion, who caught it deftly. “Care to show these oafs some real sword fighting?” he asked as he gestured for the pair to give up their shields as well.
Illarion grinned, the motion coming more naturally this time. The wooden grip felt solid in his hand. “I’d be happy to,” he said, slipping off his baldric and sword and exchanging them for one of the wooden shields.
The Northman grinned, and waved Illarion forward. “Come, ghost, let us see what you know.”
“And what shall I call you?” Illarion asked as he walked out onto the tiny field. He took a few practice swings with the sword, measuring its weight and handling. “Dog? Rat?” He glanced up at the Northman. “You have a name, don’t you?”
The Northman spat on the muddy ground. “Ozur,” he said, lowering his body into a defensive crouch.
“My name is Illarion,” Illarion said. “Not ghost.” He darted forward, swinging his sword in a short arc. The Northman jerked his head back, snapping his shield up and blocking Illarion’s strike. “A ghost can’t hurt you,” Illarion said. “I can.”
Ozur thrust his shield forward, trying to snare Illarion’s, and his sword followed quickly, the point driving toward Illarion’s face. Illarion caught both on his shield and pushed them wide as he stepped back. With a flick of his wrist, he disengaged entirely. Staying out of reach. “Me too,” Ozur said with a wicked grin.
They circled each other, and Illarion felt the dream recede. His attention collapsed to the weaving point of Ozur’s sword and to the circular shape of his opponent’s shield. His body relaxed and all of the nightmarish tension in his shoulders and back sloughed away.
Ozur slammed his shield against Illarion’s, twisting the edges together so that Illarion’s arms were forced down, clearing the way for a sword to come over the top of the interlocked shields. A sharp jab at the face. Illarion ducked, slapping his sword along the left edge of his shield. Angling for a strike at Ozur’s chest. The other man grunted and shoved, pushing both shields away, and he followed through with a wild swing at Illarion’s head and shoulders. Illarion blocked, holding his sword firmly. The swords rattled together loudly, wood clacking against wood, and Illarion tried to slide his blade along Ozur’s, but wood wasn’t the same as metal and his blade didn’t move as quickly as it should have. Ozur had time to pull back and avoid the strike at his hands.
Ozur stepped back, his guard still high, but he was out of measure. “What do you want here?” he asked Illarion. He was watching Illarion carefully. The Northman’s eyes held a healthy amount of distrust, but there was curiosity as well.
“A good fight,” Illarion said.
Ozur grunted in response. Illarion’s answer was no answer at all. Wasn’t that what they all wanted?
“They don’t trust me,” Illarion said, his gaze flicking toward the watching men.
“I don’t trust you either,” Ozur said.
“Are you afraid of me?” Illarion asked. He feigned a step to his left before darting forward, his shield clashing with Ozur’s again. The wooden swords banged off the rims of the shields, and Illarion felt the breeze of Ozur’s sword as it passed close to his face. He felt his sword strike something soft. Just a glancing blow.
Ozur backed away again, and this time his eyes were hard and his face was dark with emotion. “No,” he said thickly. There was a line on his cheek, a mark left by the tip of Illarion’s sword.
“I’m not a ghost, then?” Illarion asked. “Not a sorcerer or some dark thing from a midwife’s story?” His words were not a question.
“Just a man,” Ozur said. When he came at Illarion this time, he moved with a savage speed Illarion hadn’t seen before. He’s really fighting me, Illarion thought. This is no longer a training exercise. He gave ground instead of trying to match Ozur’s attack. Ozur’s shield struck his, and he felt the shock of the contact run up his arm. Ozur’s sword flicked over the edge of the shields, nearly striking his shield arm, and he made the mistake of leaning back from the sword. Ozur drove forward, crouching behind his shield, and Illarion felt his defense crumble, his arm collapsing back against his chest. Ozur leered at Illarion, his braided beard much too close, and the pommel of Ozur’s sword smacked Illarion in the forehead.
Illarion staggered back, his vision flashing white. He heard cheering from the watching men, and his single ear filled with a roaring sound. He blinked heavily, trying to clear his sight, and when he could see again, he saw Ozur had lowered his weapon.
“They don’t know you,” Ozur said. “They see how swiftly you’ve snared the prince’s ear. Such influence makes them nervous, especially from one who should be dead.”
“I’m not dead,” Illarion gasped.
“Aye.” Ozur grinned and pointed at Illarion’s head. “And tomorrow you’ll have the bruise to prove it.”
Illarion raised his hand and felt the bump rising on his forehead. Ozur was right; he would have a very visible bruise for the next week or so. Perhaps it would be enough to convince the men that he was as real as they.
“Had enough?” Ozur asked.
Illarion touched the bump once more, wincing lightly. In the distance, he thought he heard a voice calling out to him. Ilya, Ilya…He shook his head, and readied himself again.
Ozur shrugged, and then abruptly launched himself forward with a scream. Illarion sidestepped, checked the blow with his shield, and snapped his weapon at the bigger man’s shoulder with a flick of his wrist. It met with a crack as his opponent pivoted, catching the weapon high on his rim before cutting low. Illarion slammed his shield down onto the blade as he stepped to the side with his right foot and snapped off another stroke at Ozur’s hip. They were both fighting in earnest now; Illarion was holding nothing back.
The big warrior grunted as the wooden blade struck home, and Illarion knew that Ozur would carry a mark from this bout as well. Ozur’s grunt turned to a laugh as he struck high at Illarion’s head. Illarion raised his shield to block the blade and the rim of Ozur’s shield jabbed low at his midsection in a blow that would drive the air from his lungs. Illarion tightened all the muscles of his abdomen at once—his oplo at Týrshammar had taught them how to survive this blow—and the rim of the shield struck him hard, but he didn’t lose his breath.
Illarion slammed his shield upwards and to his left, driving Ozur’s sword arm wide, creating an opening that his opponent would have to cover. Illarion followed through with his sword and Ozur dropped his shield to block the thrust. The bait,
taken.
Illarion let his weight carry him forward as he snapped the sword away from the feint, stepping inside the range of the Northman’s sword. He slashed across Ozur’s midsection, and if his sword had been sharp, he would have opened the Northman up from hip to shoulder. With a shout of surprise, Ozur stumbled back, tripping over his own feet and falling to the muddy ground.
There wasn’t a sound from the watchers, and when Illarion stole quick glance in that direction, he saw the young men staring. Then the silence was broken by Ozur’s roaring laughter. The Northman rolled onto his side, coughing as he hauled himself to his feet. He groaned as he laughed, his hands clutching at his chest and belly. “Who taught you to fight?” he chortled around a painful wheeze. “I haven’t been hit like that in years.”
“I spent some time at the Rock,” Illarion said. “At Týrshammar, in the north.”
“With the Shield-Brethren?” Ozur said, a look of admiration on his face.
“Aye.”
Ozur laughed even more. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” he groaned. He dropped his weapons and held out his arms as he stepped up to Illarion and gave him a brief hug. “That would have saved us both some bruises.”
“Would you have believed me?” Illarion asked.
“I do now,” Ozur said. He looked at the men standing nearby and waved a hand, dismissively. “Get out of here, you lazy fools,” he said. “Don’t make me set the ghost of Rus on you.” The men scattered, pursued by Ozur’s laughter.
The ghost of Rus…
Illarion didn’t share the Northman’s humor. When Ozur glanced back, he misinterpreted Illarion’s expression. “It was a good hit,” he said, clapping Illarion on the shoulder. “I look forward to the day when I see you perform it with steel on one of our enemies.”
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 9
