The fire crackled between them, and in the firelight, the skulls seemed to be grinning at Illarion.
“There is little magic left in the world,” Baba Yaga said. “But a little is enough. You have not sworn the old vows; you have not given an oath to protect the old ways, but you have the blood. Your flesh bears the mark.”
“Is that why you call me Ilya?” Illarion asked.
A small smirk passed across the gnarled, wrinkled mouth. “What that not a name you had as a child?”
“No,” Illarion said. “It wasn’t.”
“Is it a name that suits you?”
Illarion stared at the ash-blackened skull. Its eye sockets were black holes that seemed to suck up the firelight. He knew her question was not as innocent as it seemed, nor as nonsensical. Dreams were often filled with strange dichotomies—sweet promises mixed with threats of horrific pain and suffering—and more often than not, the power of the dream realm made it easy to overlook the darkness lurking beneath the surface. There was no veil over his eyes now. He saw the skulls for what they were. He saw the emptiness within the eyes of the black one. He saw the blood-smeared teeth of the other one.
If he were offered a chance to take revenge upon those who had killed his family, would he take it? If a sword were put in his hand, would he not use it to protect those he cared about?
Would he protect Rus from those who threatened her?
“I am no saint,” he said.
“No?” She cocked her head at him. “Who are you then?”
“My name does not matter,” he said. He stretched out his right arm, pushing back his sleeve. The bare skin of his forearm was unmarked, but he could feel the skin itching. “Only my actions matter.”
“Aye,” the old crone answered. “That much has always been true.”
She hobbled over to him and bent to draw his sword out of its scabbard. He tried not to flinch as she raised his weapon, but once she had freed it from the scabbard, she moved away from him, back to the fire.
There was no fanfare or ceremony to what followed. It was a simple, utilitarian ritual of the sort long left behind by much of the world, where priests sang dirges and let swing incense-burning censors. The sort of rite that would always be true.
She reached into the fire, which refused to burn her, and brought forth a handful of ash which she smeared on the hilt of his sword. Holding the blade carefully, she pushed the weapon into the coals so that the pommel was in the hottest part of the fire. When she lifted it free a few moments later, the handle smoked and the pommel stone glowed orange and red. She turned and peered at him from under her cowl. He did not look away, nor did he withdraw his hand.
She pressed the hilt of the sword against his palm. It wasn’t as hot as he expected and he curled his fingers around the ash-covered hilt. She raised the tip of the blade so that the red-hot pommel stone pressed into his bare forearm.
His flesh burned beneath the improvised brand, and Illarion had thought that he knew enough of pain to hold his tongue against crying out.
He was wrong.
CHAPTER 31:
THE GHOST OF RUS
He woke with a burning sensation in his forearm from what he thought had been a dream. When he remembered what the crone had done to him, the sensation spread, racing up his arm and filling his chest. It moved up into his head, sweat starting from his brow and along his neck, and then it moved down, sweat bleeding from his thighs and calves. He jerked backward, opening his eyes.
The fire had been built up to a large bonfire, and he had been lying prostrate beside it. It had been the heat of the fire which had been distressing him, and as he gasped and blinked, struggling to discern how much time had passed, he took in the concerned faces peering at him. Nika and…
“Raphael?” he croaked. “Feronantus?” He blinked several times, not entirely believing what he was seeing, but the faces did not vanish. “Vera,” he said, recognizing the fourth face. “What…what happened? Where am I?”
“You’re lying in the woods near Lake Peipus,” Raphael said. “As to why or how, we can’t help you with that mystery. We found you here.”
Illarion struggled to sit up, and saw a few other faces hovering in the background: Ozur and several of the Shield-Maidens. He looked over at the fire and saw that the stones were the same, but the narrow pit had been filled with fresh logs. There was no sign of the skulls. He tilted his head back, following the curling column of pale smoke, and gazed up at the night sky. “How long?” he murmured.
“A few hours,” Nika supplied. “Your friends arrived while you were sleeping. They came from Pskov, intending to see the prince, but they met some of my sisters and learned you were part of the prince’s entourage. Ziara finally told them that we had gone into the woods.”
Illarion nodded slowly. His right forearm had been wrapped with a piece of silk, and it clung to his skin in several places where blood had soaked through. “Who wrapped this?” he asked.
“I did,” Raphael said. “It’s very clean and there isn’t much blood.”
“Did you see what it was?”
“Aye,” Raphael said. He glanced up at Feronantus. “We are familiar with such a mark, though it has been many years since I have seen one that precise. Most flinch, just a little bit.”
“I would imagine the circumstances under which he received it were quite different,” Feronantus said quietly. “And yet, it would seem we are of the same spirit now.”
“Aye,” Raphael nodded. “I would imagine so.”
Illarion felt something rising in his throat and he quickly turned it into a braying laugh. “My friends,” he said, not wanting to dwell on the mark on his arm. “What are you doing here? It has been so many months since I have seen you. You were—” He broke off, not sure how to speak of the Shield-Brethren’s mission.
“We were successful,” Feronantus said, his gaze wandering toward the frozen lake. “But our work is not yet done.”
“What work is that?”
Feronantus looked at Illarion again. “There is to be a battle on the morrow,” he said, and his gaze dropped to Illarion’s arm. “We all have parts to play in it.”
“Aye,” Illarion sighed, plucking at the silk wrap. “That we do.”
They spotted torchlight across the lake as they made their way back to the prince’s camp—sure sign that Hermann of Dorpat’s army had reached the far side of the lake. Ozur went ahead of the group to alert the prince, though Nika suspected the Kynaz already knew. The pale glow from the opposite side of the lake was hard to miss against the black and white landscape.
They were met by a group of Shield-Maidens not far from the camp, a handful of warriors who were ready for battle, and Nika found her heart swelling with pride at the sight of her sisters. In the days since Pskov, the Skjalddis had proven themselves time and again in the scattered skirmishes in Dorpat, and although the company of Skjalddis was nowhere near the size of the force that had once protected Kiev, they still numbered enough to warrant special placement on the battlefield. The men in the prince’s army looked upon them with reverence now, as well as a bit of fear. Nika had heard more than one quietly refer to her as Valkyrie when they thought she was out of earshot. She thought such deference might not last past this coming battle, but for the interim, she was glad to know that the men of Novgorod would have her back as well as stand ready beside her.
The Skjalddis fell in on either side of the small company, and the sight of the well-armored Shield-Maidens cleared a path through the confusion of the camp as they were led directly to the prince’s tent.
The prince and his brother were having the same argument they had been having for the last few days when they were announced and ushered into the narrow tent. There was barely enough room for all of them, but knowing that she was the least important person in the room, she squeezed into a corner and did her best to become unobtrusive.
Alexander sought her out regardless. “It is somewhat awkward to awaken and discover
that my favorite decoy and his shadow have fled my camp,” he said, staring sternly at Nika. “More so when strangers arrive, seeking a part in the battle tomorrow, and then I learn they are old companions of yours.”
“My apologies, Kynaz,” Illarion said. “Nika and I were—”
“It would be unwise to lie to me,” Alexander interrupted.
Illarion held his tongue a moment, his fingers idly plucking at the silk wrapping around his arm. He glanced at Nika, and she lifted her shoulders slightly as if to give him permission to say anything that he thought necessary.
“Nika and I were consulting with the old witch of Rus,” Illarion said.
Andrei swore loudly, earning a hard glare from his brother. “And who, exactly, was this witch?” Alexander asked, the tone of his voice suggesting that while he would tolerate this outrageous story born from the mind of an imaginative child, his tolerance had limits.
“Baba Yaga,” Illarion said, eliciting another exclamation of disbelief from Andrei.
Alexander chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Baba Yaga?” he asked, eyebrows raised. When Illarion nodded, Alexander glanced at his brother, who glowered at him. “Continue,” Alexander said.
“She was a Skjalddis once,” Illarion said. “A defender of women and children. Somehow, when she became who she is now, she took on the role of protector of all of Rus.”
Illarion unwound the silk bandage from his arm and showed everyone the inflamed mark on his skin. “She chose me to be her champion,” he said.
“It is the mark of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae,” Feronantus said. He put up his own sleeve, displaying a similar mark upon his forearm. “We all bear it.”
Raphael showed his forearm as well.
Alexander looked at the three scars, inspecting each one carefully. “And how do you come by this mark?” he asked.
“When we are ready, we are tested, and those who survive the test are sealed into service,” Feronantus said, his eyes lingering on Illarion. “The flesh never forgets what the mind and spirit have vowed to do.”
Illarion lowered his arm, hiding the mark from view. Feronantus’s last statement was meant for him, and the reminder sent a shiver up his back. The old master of Týrshammar seemed to know more about his visit with Baba Yaga than he did.
“Vindicis Intactae,” Alexander said. “Defenders of the Virgin. Is that who you swear to protect?”
“Among others,” Raphael said.
Andrei shook his head. “This is heathen nonsense, Kynaz. They have no place in your army. They will only serve to frighten the militia.”
Alexander looked at his older brother with a raised eyebrow. “Frighten them?” he wondered. “On the contrary, I suspect they’ll give them courage. I have heard stories of the Shield-Brethren. I hear that between you and your martial sisters there are no warriors braver or stronger. If I understand what these men are telling me, it would seem that the advantage in the coming battle is ours.”
Andrei flushed and turned away from his brother to pour himself a flagon of wine. Utterly unnecessary at this time of day, Nika thought, but Andrei needed something to occupy his hands.
“We have one boon to ask of you,” Feronantus said.
“I will grant it if I may,” Alexander said.
“The one known as Volquin’s Dragon,” Feronantus said. “Kristaps and his men are ours.”
“All of them?”
“Aye,” Feronantus said, and Nika noticed the odd glance that Raphael gave him.
Alexander glanced at Illarion, as if to verify there was nothing else that would require his permission, and then he looked at his brother again. Andrei refused to look up from his flagon. “Very well,” the prince said. “If all you require of me is that I believe in childhood phantoms and that I provide you with an opportunity to stand between me and our mutual enemies, then I see no conflict. I doubt the three of you—and all of the Skjalddis outside who are already thirsting for battle—are enough to stand against the Livonians and their mad leader, but I will not prevent you from seeking them out on the battlefield.”
“That is all we ask,” Feronantus said, inclining his head.
Nika caught Vera’s eye and raised an eyebrow. The elder Shield-Maiden smiled grimly, and Nika knew she had her marching orders. The Livonians it is, she thought. At least they will be easy to pick out against the ice.
After the meeting, Alexander asked Illarion to accompany him as the prince went to inspect the lake. They walked through chaos as the Druzhina prepared for battle while the men of the militia struck the camp. The noisy cacophony made Illarion’s head ache and he was glad to get away from all the confusion and shouting. Close to the lake, it was peaceful enough that he could hear the gentle sound of water moving back and forth beneath the ice.
Alexander walked down to the lake’s edge and beckoned Illarion over. “Do you see the ridges where the wind has melted the ice and then frozen it again?” He pointed to the uneven surface of the lake.
Illarion recalled his journey across the lake several nights ago. He had been concerned about his horse falling through the ice, and he had instructed the men to lead the animals slowly and carefully. Looking at the edged ice now, he realized slowly and carefully was the best speed a horse and rider could hope for. “They won’t be able to charge us,” he said.
“Not until they get to this shore,” Alexander said. “Should I wait for them here or meet them on the ice?”
“Do you think it will hold?”
Alexander looked out across the glistening surface. “I am not the one who has been consorting with the supernatural,” he said. “I would defer to you on this matter, Illarion Illarionovich.”
“My Prince…” Illarion began awkwardly.
“Had I known that Hermann had left assassins lying in wait in Pskov, I would have gone myself.” Alexander laughed at Illarion’s expression. “No, perhaps not. At the very least, I would have sent more men. But I speak with the benefit of hindsight. Would I have been killed in the church? Would I have been as capable as you in dispatching the assassins?”
“Of course you would have,” Illarion said.
“I would hope so,” Alexander said absently, his attention on the far side of the lake. The glow of watch fires was brighter than before, suggesting that the army of Hermann of Dorpat was readying itself as well. “My brother believes I am not as clever as I think,” Alexander continued, “and he is still unhappy about some of my previous decisions, but he will follow me. The Druzhina will follow me, as will the men of Novgorod, and I believe that we have selected the best possible field of battle…”
“But…” Illarion prompted Alexander when the prince trailed off.
“But I am pragmatic man,” Alexander said with a faint smile. “I know that how the people remember the battle matters almost as much as the outcome of the battle itself.”
“And what would you have them remember of this battle?” Illarion asked.
Alexander smiled at him then, a broad grin that showed many of his teeth. “I would have them know that Rus rose up against those who would attack her. I would have any who contemplate invading our lands think twice about the folly of such actions. I would have them fear to awaken that which slumbers in these forests.”
Illarion’s forearm itched and he fought the urge to rake his nails across his freshly branded skin. “I would be honored to assist you with that goal, my Kynaz,” he said. “My blood is the blood of Rus, and it is yours to command.”
Alexander grasped his forearm, pressing his palm against the silk-covered injury on Illarion’s arm. He grabbed Illarion’s wrist with his other hand, holding him still as he squeezed Illarion’s arm. When he released his grip, the silk bandage was marked with blood, and there was blood on the prince’s palm as well.
“The blood of Rus,” Alexander said. He stepped out onto the frozen lake and crouched. He held his hand over one of the icy ridges and drew his palm sharply across the frozen edge, leaving behi
nd a line of bright blood on the ice. “This is our blood,” he said. “This is our land. I, Prince Alexander Iaroslavich of the House of Rurik, swear to defend Rus against all who wish to do her harm, and I do not stand alone in this defense.”
Illarion held his breath, half-expecting something to happen in the wake of the prince’s pronouncement, but the lake was silent. His forearm stopped itching.
“They will have to come straight across the lake,” the prince said, standing up and returning to the shore as if nothing had happened. He wiped his palm clean on his tunic. “This is the only place where the ice is thick enough and the lake narrow enough to make such a crossing possible. Our Druzhina and horse-archers will hold back with the infantry in the center. I want you with my cavalry. The Skjalddis, if they are willing, will be our shield-wall.” He tapped his foot on the ground. “Here. This is the place where it will end. Right here.”
CHAPTER 32:
THE BATTLE ON THE ICE
Kristaps reined in his horse at the edge of the frozen lake, and the animal snorted with impatience. He had ridden a palfrey for the past few days to save his warhorse for battle, and now his destrier was eager for the charge. Behind Kristaps, the bulk of the army assembled—Hermann’s Teutonics, his Livonians, the Danes, and the ragtag militia gathered from Dorpat. His scouts had tracked the fleeing Novgorodian marauders to the lake, and he knew that they had crossed the ice at the same place that he had a week prior.
He knew this would be the place where Nevsky would meet him in battle.
Hermann had argued that they should have crossed during the night. The moon had been out and the sky had been clear, making it easy to see well enough to guide the army across the lake, but Kristaps had dismissed the idea. This was Ruthenian land, and they knew it better than he and his men. The army had been marching hard for more than a week; they were tired and worn down. A night’s rest—even though he knew most of the men would sleep uneasily knowing they would probably march into battle in the morning—would be more beneficial than an attempted sneak attack. Just as it was bright enough from the moonlight for the Teutonics to pick their way across the lake, so too could the Novgorodians see them coming.
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 33
