Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4)

by Joseph Brassey

  “They’re beautiful horses,” Raphael said.

  The mares lifted their heads, nostrils flaring as they checked his scent. Percival clucked his tongue lightly and patted them both reassuringly. “Indeed,” the Frank said. “From Arabia. They’re quite far from home.”

  “As are we,” Raphael noted.

  Percival noted something in Raphael’s voice and realized the visit was not entirely a casual one. He left off his ministrations of the horses and approached the rope line. “What is on your mind, Raphael?” he asked.

  A combination of sun and wind had darkened Percival’s fair face to bronze and put red and yellow highlights into his beard. His eyes were a shade of blue that reminded Raphael of the Mediterranean, and he was struck by the similarity between Percival’s face and some of the statues of Zeus he had seen on Cyprus during his travels.

  “The last time we were at this rock, our company held council and re-affirmed our desire to end the Khagan’s life. We went east as one, and achieved our goal, but not without great cost. Now, we are but a handful of weary travelers, and our brotherhood is reduced to two.”

  “Two?” Percival frowned. “You don’t count the boy? After what he’s done?”

  “Haakon?” Raphael shook his head. He pulled up the right sleeve of his tunic to reveal the edge of the pale scar that marked him as an initiate of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. It was an old brand, seared into his flesh during the ritual in the cave beneath Petraathen. “He hasn’t been tested.”

  “Is that all that matters?”

  “With regard to the final say of our course of action, yes. I am not considering Vera either, even though she is—by all counts—an equal sister to us.” Raphael let his sleeve drop. “What keeps us together is fellowship and the necessity of companionship in order to survive the journey through the mountains, but that journey is complete. I would know your mind as to your ultimate destination.”

  “We should return to Petraathen,” Percival said without hesitation.

  “Should we?” Raphael asked. His gaze was mainly directed at the horses behind Percival, but he was watching the Frank’s expression as best he could without being obvious. His own confusion about Feronantus was very clear in his mind—that was the one thing he was certain of—and he needed a clear perspective on his thoughts. Was Percival as conflicted about their course of action, or was it merely an odd affectation of their previous leader that was being dismissed as a character flaw? Percival held himself to a high standard, and while he had taken the same oath of fellowship and brotherhood, he maintained a more rarefied observance of the letters of their oaths than any other member of the order that Raphael knew.

  Percival closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again, Raphael felt they weren’t as focused. He’s guarded, Raphael thought.

  “We have lost brothers in battle,” Percival said. “It is our duty to see that their stories are not lost and that their swords are returned to the Great Hall at Petraathen.”

  Duty, Raphael thought. No other reason?

  “Of course,” he said. “But we are not required to do immediately. Is there not some other task that remains unaccomplished?”

  “I fought for him,” Percival said. “I bled for him. He abandoned us. He fled the field of battle. Feronantus is no longer worthy of being called brother.”

  “And you aren’t curious as to why he fled?”

  “No.”

  Percival’s response was curt, but Raphael spotted a flutter in the Frank’s left eye, a nervous tic that couldn’t quite be suppressed. But before he could ask another question, a cry from behind him interrupted their conversation.

  A figure atop the rock was waving madly. Raphael squinted, trying to figure out who it was as the figure shouted once more and then darted off, disappearing on the far side of the rock.

  “Gawain,” Percival said, his eyesight better than Raphael’s. His hearing was better too. “He’s spotted the scouts…but they’re missing a horse.”

  CHAPTER 12:

  TIGER, TIGER

  At first, Feronantus overlooked the long pale orange and black shape as nothing more than a piece of rock, an exposed slab attached to a much larger formation that lay beneath the soil. The terrain over which he and Istvan had been traveling the past few days was no more or less flat than any ground they’d seen in weeks, but it seemed harder. As if the soil were nothing more than a thin skin over a plain of old stone. As such, he wasn’t surprised to see the occasional bump in the landscape—places where the soil had been blown away to reveal the ragged skeleton of the world beneath the sandy skin. He had thought they might find the enormous rock where they had met Benjamin during their ride east, but they had missed it, apparently. Not that it mattered overmuch; the rock was a landmark that others would use, and he didn’t want to risk encountering anyone. He and Istvan would not be able to deter a decent-sized band of marauders or Mongols.

  The second time he saw the orange and black rock, he wondered if the striated stone was indicative of certain mineral deposits, and he briefly missed Yasper’s presence. The Dutchman would have had an opinion, if not informed knowledge about the composition of the oddly colored stone. He considered pointing out the rock to Istvan, but the Hungarian was in one of his moods and was inclined to ignore everything Feronantus said.

  The third time he saw the rock, he realized it wasn’t a rock at all.

  “Tiger,” was all Istvan said when Feronantus finally pointed out the shape to the Hungarian. They moved upwind and left their horses near a pair of stones that were not going to wander. Istvan led him on a slow creep across the steppe—at one point, they wiggled for a good half hour on their bellies—until they reached the edge of one of the natural depressions that were scattered across the steppe.

  A small stream trickled in from the north, and Feronantus realized he was looking over a shallow lakebed that was now nothing more than a dried basin with a tiny pool near the center. Out of the direct path of the wind, the wormwood was able to grow taller, and clumps of the bush clustered along the edge of the pond. Behind the wormwood were several stands of larch, still naked from their winter fright, and through the trees, they could see a herd of antlered deer, cropping the short grasses that had started to push through the permafrost of the steppe.

  Istvan pointed, and Feronantus stared at the shadows creeping through the wormwood. The tiger was stalking the herd, moving with incredible patience through the brush. It was no wonder he had mistaken the tiger for a striped stone; if he hadn’t been staring directly at it—well aware of what the shape truly was—he would not have noticed it.

  Istvan rested his chin on his hands and squirmed slightly to make himself comfortable on the ground. “Watch,” he whispered. “Usually you do not see a beast like this until it is too late.”

  Feronantus wondered where Istvan had seen a tiger before. He had heard stories of them while he had been in the Levant, during the crusade with Richard Lionheart. Some of his fellow Shield-Brethren had scoffed at the stories, thinking the tiger was much like the hippogriff or the phoenix—a creature out of legend. But he had seen men wearing cloaks lined with the orange and black fur.

  A pair of stags with broad antlers patrolled the edge of the herd, alert for the sign of any danger. Each time either came near the copse of trees where the tiger was hidden, the predator became like a stone. Feronantus had never seen an animal display such patience and cunning.

  They watched for more than an hour, during which time Feronantus felt cramps seize his legs more than once. He was no longer a young man to enjoy such protracted watchfulness, and he was about to tell Istvan that he was done watching when one of the two stags raised its head and gave a loud warning cough.

  In an instant, the herd was in motion, the does driving the younger deer before them while the older males and the stags lagged behind. A blur raced out from beneath the trees, and one of the stags lowered its enormous spread of antlers, but the tiger was not interested
in fighting an armed opponent. It streaked past the stag, intent on one of the older does who wasn’t running as fast as the rest of the herd. The doe bleated in fear and dodged away from the rest of the herd, heading across the dry basin. In motion, the tiger appeared to be longer than a man was tall, and it ran with long loping strides. The deer scrambled and hopped and darted in a valiant effort to confuse the tiger, but the predator remained focused on its target. It got one paw on the deer’s hindquarters, and the blow knocked the doe sideways. Before it could get its balance righted, the tiger was on it, its fanged mouth closing around the deer’s slender neck.

  The rest of the herd disappeared over the far rim of the basin, one of the stags lingering a moment. Feronantus stared at it, framed against the sky with its proud spread of knobbed antlers, and then it was gone.

  In the basin, the tiger held its prey tightly in its jaws, the body of the deer slack. It was staring in their direction, and before Feronantus could stop him, Istvan stood up and lifted his arm in salute.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed at the Hungarian.

  “We could have spooked the herd,” Istvan said. “But we didn’t, and now he has food.” He looked down at Feronantus, a feral light in his eyes. “Perhaps he will not stalk us again because we have not interfered with his hunt.”

  “What do you mean?” Feronantus asked somewhat distractedly as he got to his feet. His knees complained, and his lower back was stiff.

  “He’s been tracking us for the last few days,” Istvan said. “If it hadn’t been for these deer, he might have attacked us tonight.”

  It was a cold and clear night, and since they hadn’t seen any sign of other riders for more than two weeks, Feronantus allowed a fire to be built. He wasn’t entirely convinced the tiger would keep its distance, and that fear jabbed at his spirit like it had found a chink in his mental armor. He was not one to let fear rule his mind, and long ago he had learned the difference between terror and caution. Every man who goes into battle is aware of his mortality, but a great deal of the training within the order was meant to mitigate that fear.

  In his mind’s eye, he could see the muscles moving beneath the tight skin of the tiger as it ran and the strength in the animal’s paws as it had slapped the deer to the ground. The tiger was more frightening than any berserker, and not merely because it ran on four legs and had sharp teeth. The berserker was merely a man, and Feronantus knew how to defeat men. He did not know how to defeat a tiger.

  And through that tiny crack in his armor came other thoughts, like invaders through a breach in a castle wall. Did he know what was going to happen when he brought the Spirit Banner back to Petraathen? What were the Electi going to say when he showed up at the castle gates? Not only had he ordered and participated in the death of the Khagan, but he had taken a trophy as well, as if he were a mongrel mercenary. The elders of Petraathen had been disgusted with him for many years; the Spirit Banner would merely be the final straw. His fate would not be exile. Not this time.

  But if he were right about what he saw in the Vor, then it had to be done. The order had to be set on the right path if it were going to be saved. The death of the Khagan had set in motion a sequence of events that had to be played out; it was his fate to see that future and know his part in it.

  But as he had watched the tiger stalk the herd, his confidence had eroded, and when the tiger had swiped at the deer with his enormous paw, he had watched the deer be knocked from its path and wondered if he would survive such a blow. If God or the Devil or the Virgin—unhappy with his interpretation of her messages—reached down and swatted him, would he have enough strength to continue on? Was he marching doggedly onward, clinging to the hope that his instincts were right? Was that why he had left the others behind? They would quiz him endlessly about what he was thinking—Cnán, especially. The others might follow him without question, but Raphael was beginning to show signs of doubt.

  Istvan snorted in his sleep and rolled onto his back. His mouth lolled open and a nasally snore drifted out. For not the first time, Feronantus marveled at the Hungarian’s indifference to the world around him. Unlike the others, Istvan would not question his authority; he could, however, also wake up one morning and mistake Feronantus for a Mongol and take a knife to the old knight. Such was the unnerving simplicity of the Hungarian’s mind.

  How many more like him? Feronantus wondered. In the last forty years, how many had he trained to be just like Istvan? They came to Týrshammar, pink-faced and eager to devote themselves to a life serving the Virgin. They would be taught how to hold a shield, how to throw a spear, and how to fight with a sword. They would be taught to read and write so that they could understand the virtues of the order: honor, humility, selflessness, courage. They would be girded for battle and blooded on the field so that they understood the power and responsibility that came with the shield and sword. They would become men under his tutelage. He gave them purpose; in return, they swore to follow him—and others like him—for the rest of their lives.

  To what end?

  A breath of wind stirred the horsehair strands of the Spirit Banner, and an overwhelming longing to see Maria again swept over him. It was such an unexpected surge of emotion that his vision blurred with tears before he could stop them, and when he closed his eyes to keep them in, a few escaped. They rolled down his face and disappeared into his beard.

  She would have comforted him. She would have wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close to her breast. He would have laid his head against her and been calmed by the steady pulse of her heart. She would have held him tight, and his breathing would match hers—slow and careful—and if he remained still long enough, he would hear the song that echoed in her heart. When she was happy, it would rise in her throat and slip out, a wordless tune that she was unaware she was singing, but the sound of it always made Feronantus feel as if he was doing the right thing. For all the confusion and chaos of those years in the English woods, the constant was Maria and her song.

  He heard something that might have been a phrase of song, a whispered couplet, or merely the tinkling laughter of a young woman. He stood, opening his eyes and staring into the darkness beyond the meager flames of the fire.

  Istvan lay as if dead: arms sprawled, eyes half-open, mouth gaping, a line of spittle creeping across his cheek.

  The wind shifted, and the horsehair strands brushed against the shaft of the Spirit Banner.

  Feronantus, his eyes not straying from the darkness around the camp, knelt and drew his sword from its sheath. The steel whispered against the mouth of the scabbard, and he heard a sighing echo from beyond the camp.

  One of the two horses tossed its head and rumbled in its chest. Its hooves clattered against the ground as it shifted, but there was no nervousness in the sound. If there was something out there—watching them, stalking them—the horses couldn’t smell it.

  Feronantus grabbed the crooked stick he had been using to tend to the fire and shoved the tip into the coal until the wood caught fire. It was a pitiful torch, but the flickering light was as good as a tallow candle, which was better than nothing at all. Armed with sword and fire, Feronantus stepped away from the camp.

  He walked deosil about the camp, the opposite direction of the normal night watch circuit, so that he would not be trying to look past the light of the torch held in his left hand. His night vision was poor, and the moon was but a thin fingernail low in the sky. He strained to hear any noises in the night as much as he tried to see anything moving beyond their camp, but as he finished his circuit, he had to admit he and Istvan were alone on the steppe.

  The horses raised their heads and stared at him with stoic indifference. “It’s nothing,” he grumbled and he thrust the burning tip of the stick into the ground, extinguishing the flickering light. “Just the heartache of an old man,” he sighed. He raised his head and stared at the sea of stars swimming across the vault of the sky.

  Istvan coughed, and the sound was distorte
d as if there were something covering the Hungarian’s mouth. Feronantus pulled his gaze away from the night sky and peered back at the camp. What he saw made his heart leap in his chest. “Aaieah!” he shouted, darting toward the fire with his sword raised.

  A shape was crouching over Istvan, poking at the Hungarian’s face with bony hands. As Feronantus charged, the shape slithered sideways, moving like serpentine smoke, and then it leaped through the fire. Feronantus saw a flash of orange and black stripes, and thought he heard the rumbling growl of the tiger as the shape vanished.

  The noise was coming from Istvan. Bent nearly double, the Hungarian was coughing from deep in his chest as if he were trying to dislodge something caught in his throat. Istvan hacked and spat; his throat clear, he started to swear—cursing the Mongols, his family, the sky, and even Feronantus in a voice haggard with exhaustion and pain.

  Feronantus let him rant; it showed he was going to live and the noise was enough to drive off any predator still slinking about in the shadows. He picked up his scabbard and sheathed his sword, and he had just about decided all of the past few minutes were nothing more than nocturnal phantoms sent to invade their lonely minds when he spotted the marks in the dirt between Istvan and the fire.

  There was a single set of naked footprints, as small as if made by a child or a tiny woman, and they did not match. One was a crooked foot, warped by age, and the other was less distinct but still a footprint nonetheless.

  CHAPTER 13:

  THE FIRES OF REVENGE

  For the sake of his own inflated pride, Hermann of Dorpat had made Kristaps wait three days before deigning to agree to Cardinal Fieschi’s request that leadership of the Teutonic Knights be turned over to Kristaps. During those three days, Kristaps learned a great deal about the prevailing attitude among the men. They were restless and the cold northern nights made their inactivity much harder to tolerate; they were ready for decisive leadership, and he knew he was the one who could give it to them. He was not one of those men who believed leadership was based in love or admiration. That quaint ideology was the sort of nonsense nurtured by princelings who were more accustomed to holding their mothers’ tits than a sword. A conqueror took what he wanted and demanded fealty; those who failed to kneel were punished. It was as simple as that.