In his role as the Kynaz, Illarion was a sight to be seen. He wore a coat of shiny maille beneath steel pauldrons on his shoulders and a long surcoat that bore the prince’s coat of arms. His cloak was lined with fur, his shield painted, and his helm chastened with sculpted gold. His sword—the least ostentatious piece of his costume—hung from his saddle.
On his right, Nika rode a large black horse. She was similarly attired in colorful garb over her maille, and she carried the Kynaz’s standard, the banner snapping in the wind.
Behind them were three dozen Druzhina guard.
When they reached the gates of Pskov, Illarion expected to be greeted with a formal challenge, but he spied no watcher on the battlements. Their party slowed to a gentle trot, and Illarion nodded at Nika, who stood in her stirrups, holding the standard high. “The Kynaz of Novgorod, Prince Alexander Iaroslavich, also known as Nevsky, commands that these gates be opened and that the city of Pskov receive him,” she shouted.
No answer came, and for a long time the only sound on the plain was the wind playing with the standard. Then, Illarion heard a scrabbling noise like a mouse behind a wall, followed by the louder clunk of a wooden bar being raised. The gate creaked open slowly as each panel was pushed back by a single individual. “Welcome, illustrious prince,” one of the two haggard figures said when he had finished with the gate. “We are so grateful for your presence.”
“Where is the garrison?” Nika demanded, continuing in her role as spokesperson for the Kynaz.
“There is no garrison,” the man replied. “They left nothing behind.”
Illarion looked more closely at the speaker. His face was a mass of dark bruises, and his right eyelid drooped low over an eye that was milky in color. The other gatekeeper limped, and his left hand was a mass of dirty bandages. “Ride,” he snapped to his escort. He swallowed heavily as he prepared himself for what they were to find within the city walls.
A lingering smell of burnt matter—both wood and flesh—greeted them as they rode into the city, and Illarion marshaled his courage as the horses trotted through the empty streets. They passed the burned-out husks of buildings, the blackened timbers dappled with fresh snow, and here and there he spotted the ragged shapes of hungry children digging in the detritus for something to eat. He saw very few figures that were as large as the pair who had opened the gates for them, and a prickling of dread began to work its way up his spine. They left nothing behind.
When they reached the main square, Illarion nearly lost the contents of his stomach when he saw the carnage. Beside him, Nika let out a choking sob.
The bodies lay in a long line, with a large pile arranged at one end. The recent snow covered most of the corpses, and the winter chill had arrested the normal bloating and rot that would take root in dead flesh. Illarion couldn’t decide whether the corpses being frozen was better or worse than if the weather had been warmer.
“They form a sword,” Nika said in a tiny voice.
Illarion forced himself to look more closely at the arrangement of the bodies, and saw what Nika had spotted. The long line of bodies was the blade. In the pile at the end, there were two mounds that jutted out from the central shape that was longer than it was wide. The cross-guard of a sword, he realized, and the pommel stone.
In his mind, he saw the Livonian sigil. The red sword and cross on the white field. His fists tightened within his gloves, the fingertips digging into his palm so tightly they might have drawn blood but for the leather. Memories of Volodymyr, of ruined Kiev, flashed through his mind, and now, added to those, was the sight of the dead of Pskov. Every man or woman who could have held a weapon and stood against the Teutonic army was here.
Nika took off her helm and wiped the tears off her cheeks, though more were flowing. “I underestimated his cruelty,” she said.
“We all did,” Illarion said. Horrifying as the sight was, it was a spark that kindled a long-dormant emotion in his chest. Kristaps had left a message for all the people of Rus: You are not safe; your Kynaz cannot protect you.
And as he looked around at the timid faces of the survivors of Pskov, he saw little joy in the haggard and bruised faces. They kept their distance, shying away from the Druzhina. They were still afraid. They don’t see saviors, Illarion realized. They see another group of armed men coming into their city, and all they know is that their families and friends are dead. What is there left to save?
Too late. Always too late.
“He’s playing a cruel game,” Illarion murmured. “Word of this will spread beyond the walls, and to every corner of the countryside. He seeks to demoralize Alexander’s army.”
“No,” Nika said. “Look at these men. They want revenge for this. When the time comes, they will fight hard for the prince.”
“The Druzhina will fight, regardless,” Illarion said. “As will you and I and your sisters. But it is not us whom Kristaps strikes against. He wants to make the militia afraid.” He gestured at the field of dead. “This is what happens to brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. Everyone who has volunteered is going to be worrying about the families they left in their villages. Worrying that this will happen to them.”
“They will not break Rus,” Nika said. “Not like this.”
“We have to give them solace,” Illarion said. “We must find priests who can give them hope, who can offer guidance to our men as they help these people find their dead and bury them.” His eyes burned, and he wanted to take his helmet off and wipe the tears out of his eyes, but he didn’t dare reveal his face. Not yet. If the survivors saw that he wasn’t truly the Kynaz, what tiny hope his arrival had given them would be extinguished. “Let us find the church. Let them see the Kynaz pray for their dead.”
The anger burned hot in his chest. Beneath his helmet, tears streamed down his cheeks, and they felt like rivulets of fire coursing down his face.
Rus would not be broken, he thought. Not like this.
As Illarion, Nika, and a trio of the Druzhina rode toward the Trinity Cathedral, Illarion found solace in remembering a visit to the city as a boy. It had been in the spring, and the streets had been alive with the festive commotion of commerce. He had slipped away from his father’s entourage once to wander among the markets. He had seen fisherman, their catch fresh from the river; fur traders who had returned from months in the forests with bales of silver and black pelts; pagan traders, who wore colorful robes that were covered in strange markings, tried to sell him metal trinkets and woven effigies that offered blessings to the old gods of the forests and mountains. There were other boyars, like his father, dressed in silken clothes that were much finer than any of the rough clothes of the north. They rode powerful horses, tall steeds with shining manes and ribbons woven into their tails.
The arches of the church came into view, and the stone façade was draped with snow. Illarion’s memory of a lively Pskov was brushed away, much like snow dashed off a weathered headstone by a man who has come to the graves of his wife and children to grieve. How long would it take to bury all the dead? he wondered as he stared at the foreboding church. The ground was still hard from the winter freeze. Should they stack the dead in empty houses until the spring thaw softened the ground? It was a morbid thought and he pushed it out of his mind. It didn’t go far; he knew it would be back, haunting him when he tried to sleep.
No priest came out to greet them, and the great doors of the church gaped open. One of the panels had been torn free from its top hinge and hung crookedly, like a misaligned tooth in a skull.
“One of you should stay with the horses,” Illarion said to the three Druzhina. He unhooked his sword and scabbard from his saddle and slid down to the ground. Nika swapped the standard for her spear before joining him on the ground. The Druzhina exchanged glances, and, based on some unspoken decision passed between them, two of the three got down from their horses. “Belun,” one said as he fell in behind Illarion. “That’s Zuhzyn.” The second one nodded in response to his name.
“Very well, Belun and Zuhzyn. Let us offer our prayers for this beleaguered city. May God grant us mercy.” Illarion took the lead, Nika and the others falling in behind him.
There was something here that put him ill at ease. It was almost impossible for Illarion to lay his finger upon it, but it unsettled him, like a bad smell whose source he couldn’t place. He paused at the broken doors, peering inside in a valiant effort to see something in the interior gloom of the church. He called out a greeting, and heard nothing but the distant caw of a raven. Bird of ill omen.
A shiver ran down his spine and he gripped his scabbard tightly. He was inclined to draw his sword, but he couldn’t. The Kynaz would not enter a church with a drawn weapon. He was here as a savior, not a conqueror.
“What is it?” Nika asked, sensing his apprehension.
Illarion looked at the houses that surrounded the church, and then he raised his gaze to the spires towering above him. The raven cawed again, and he spotted the black bird perched on the edge of the sculpted roof. “A sense of dread,” he confessed.
Belun guffawed. “Now?” he asked. “All the dead bodies didn’t bother you?”
“Belun is right, Kynaz,” Nika said. “There is a great deal of despair and death here. We’ve all felt it since the moment we entered the city. It will stay with us for a long time.”
Illarion removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm. He pawed at his face, smearing the partially dried tears on his cheeks. How could they understand that he had seen much worse atrocities? He had stood on the planks laid over the families of Volodymyr. After he had risen from the dead and killed the black bones who had been looting the dead, he had walked to the edge of the field of planks. There had been bodies under those planks, and each step had been horrific. What if one of the victims was, like him, not quite dead, and his weight crushed the final bit of life out of them?
“Forgive me,” he said. “I am tired. You are correct, Belun. It is better to feel something than nothing, is it not?” He nodded toward the dark entrance of the church. “Let us enter and pray for God to show us mercy.”
Nika went first, followed by Belun and Zuhzyn. Illarion thought about putting his helmet back on, but decided that to do so would be to give in to the fear bubbling in his stomach. He took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom of the church. The light from the windows in the apse was sullen and gray, and it made the interior of the church a mass of deep shadows and bleak stone. There were iron candelabras scattered throughout and wall sconces that still held stubs of candles. “Let us bring some light to this wretched place,” he said.
One of the two Druzhina moved toward the inner wall of the church and fumbled with a pouch on his belt. After several moments, a flint was struck, scattering sparks. After several more tries, one of the sparks caught in the loose tinder the Druzhina was holding, and when he raised the smoking bundle to his lips to blow on it, Illarion saw that the figure was Belun.
Belun held the smoking tinder to the wick of one of the candles, still blowing on the dry twigs to keep the spark alive. A tiny flame wavered, dancing languidly, and Belun drew in breath to blow one more time, but when he exhaled, he coughed. The sudden gust of air was too much for the tiny flame and it went out.
In the darkness, Belun coughed again, groaned, and there was a clatter as the candelabra he was holding fell over.
“Assassins,” Nika cried.
They weren’t alone in the church. Illarion heard a scrape of leather against stone and twisted away from an adversary that was approaching from his left. He felt the sharp point of a spear slide off the side of his helmet, still tucked under his arm. He had no choice but to let go of the helmet or risk the spear getting tangled with his arm and scabbard.
Nika heard the blood in Belun’s throat when he coughed the first time, and even before the Druzhina fell, she was already in motion. The assassins in the church had been there long enough for their night sight to bloom, and they would be dressed in dark cloaks. Her garb would pick up what light there was, and judging by the stealthy manner in which Belun had been killed, other assassins would be in place to do the same to the rest of their party.
As she moved, she saw a glint of steel on her left, and she slapped the haft of her spear into her left hand as she made a shield of the wood pole. Her spear clacked against the haft of her attacker’s, and the force of her motion pushed the point of his spear past her. The contact between their spears was brief, and as soon as the weight of his weapon vanished, she dropped the tip of her spear down.
A blurry shape moved in front of her, and she knew he was attempting to rotate around her makeshift shield and strike her in the head with the butt end of his spear. Nika snapped the tip of her spear up, intercepting the incoming strike, and she heard wood strike steel, which told her where the assassin’s weapon was. There was enough room for her to respond with a jab from the butt of her spear as well.
Her blow stuck something soft and her attacker grunted, and his weapon clattered against the stone floor. Her eyes were finally adjusting to the light, and she could see the shape of her attacker well enough to aim the point of her spear at the man’s neck. Metal flashed, and her spear was knocked aside. Her attacker had not chased after his dropped spear, but had pulled another weapon free—a Danish axe. It came scything at her, and she blocked high. The blade of the axe gouged a chip of wood out of the thick haft of her spear. She whirled her spear around, forcing him to keep his distance, and tried to keep her position such that the light outlined him more than her.
She could spare no attention to whether or not Illarion was still alive.
“Who dares draw blood in this house of God?” Illarion shouted as he drew his sword. He doubted his question would do much to dissuade the men who sought to kill them, but the sound of his voice would alert his companions that he still lived.
He could not say the same for the others. Belun was on his knees, gagging on his own blood. Off to his left, Illarion caught sight of Nika and heard the clatter of wood against steel. He didn’t see or hear any sign of Zuhzyn, and he had to assume the worst.
His attacker came at him again, a dark blur thrusting a spear at his midsection. He knocked the spear aside with both his sword and scabbard, and, realizing how foolish it was to carry the latter, he threw it at his attacker. He followed through with a thrust of his sword, and he felt his point slide off a leather cuirass. But that told him where his opponent was, and he twisted the blade of his sword as he continued to push. He flicked it up and felt some resistance as the tip of his blade passed through flesh, and when the man screamed, Illarion stabbed again. This time, his sword pierced the man’s armor and the cries of pain stopped.
A tiny gleam of light bloomed on his right, and as he turned his head to look at it, he caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. A slender shape, more feminine than Nika but with steel in either hand, darting at him. Knife and sword, he realized, as he blocked the sword attack and countered with a strike of his own, attempting to keep the figure far enough away from him that the knife would be useless. The knife tangled with his sword, steel grating along steel, and he was forced to pivot away from the figure to avoid catching a sword thrust in the thigh.
The slender man—for Illarion realized it was, indeed, a man he faced—slipped in and out of the deeper shadows as if his flesh were like the wind. Illarion had never seen a man move so quickly; he caught a glimpse of a crescent-moon smile and cold, eager eyes before the sword and knife were back, cutting under his guard. Illarion jumped back, driving blows aside only to find his counterstrokes hewing through empty space as his enemy danced away from his attacks. After a few exchanges, where Illarion found his efforts becoming more and more frantic, he realized he was not going to be able to land a blow as long as the man was moving freely. It was akin to trying to strike a bird out of the air. Much better to strike at the bird on the ground, he thought, and during their next exchange
of blows, he did not follow through with the counterstrike as was expected of him. Instead, as his opponent danced aside, spinning to the left, Illarion surged forward, lashing out with his foot. He connected with the man’s hip, momentarily disturbing the other’s preternatural dance, and he was close enough that he could use the rest of his body. He thrust with his shoulder and connected with the man’s chest, and smiled at the sound of hastily expelled air coming out of his opponent’s mouth.
He would only have a second or two before the man recovered. But he never got the chance.
Something hard and metallic rang off his right shoulder, and Illarion staggered.
There was another assassin, and only the steel pauldron on Illarion’s shoulder had saved him from a sword blow that would have severed his arm.
The axe hooked her spear, and Nika knew what was coming next. As the bigger man tried to pull the spear from her hands, she didn’t resist. She slammed into him, the axe caught flat between them along with the haft of her spear. Her attacker grunted and exhaled loudly, sounding almost as if he were laughing at her for coming so close to him. He let go of the axe and sought to get his hands on her body.
She sidestepped his clumsy grip, putting her left leg in line with his and snapping a short kick with her other foot against his other knee. He screamed as the leg moved in an unnatural direction, and she drove the butt of her spear under his chin, knocking his head back and rattling his teeth. He gulped and gagged—she might have caused him to bite part of his tongue off—and as she stepped back from his slack embrace, she swirled the spear around and slashed the point across his throat, opening it from ear to collarbone.
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 21
