As he flicked his blade to rid it of blood, he assessed the battlefield once more. Nevsky’s line had reached the edge of the ice, and his cavalry foundered on the ice. The massed infantry of his army had arrived and he raised his sword once more, shouting for the men to rally around him. They still had superior numbers and they could break the Novgorodian line that was still wavering. He swept his sword down, screaming for the men to take the shore.
As the enemy surged toward the shore again, the prince finally gave the command for his riders to charge, and the shield-wall splintered. Nika had seen Kristaps slay Zaria and as soon as she heard the command to make way for the prince’s charge, she stormed out onto the ice. Horses thundered past her, and she knew they would reach the enemy first, but she was going to be right behind them, her sisters and the Novgorodian infantry at her back.
She put her spear through the face of Danish marauder, twisted the point free, and then drove the butt into the stomach of the man next to him. She shifted her grip, and jabbed the spear to her left, catching a third man in the shoulder. He was wearing leather instead of maille, and the point slid through the boiled leather as if it were silk. The man howled in pain, and because his open mouth was such an inviting target, she jabbed her point there too.
She felt a tremor in the ice behind her and ducked. An axe blade sailed over her head and she thrust backward with the butt of her spear, hitting something that gave way. She spun, keeping her spear ready, and faced her opponent—another Dane, the son of someone important judging by the quality of his armor. He slashed with his axe again and she darted to her left, but he twisted his weapon and the blade of the axe sheared through the wood of her spear. He grinned, thinking she was disarmed, but she saw his next attack coming before he finished reveling in what he thought was going to happen. She grabbed the haft of her spear in both hands, stepped in, and slammed it against his axe, below the broad head. She felt the blade bounce off her helm, but the main power of his stroke had been blocked by the wood in her hand. He snarled at her, showing his teeth, and she shoved up and back as she stepped in again, putting him in range for her knee to slam into his groin.
A funny expression crossed the Dane’s face, and his grip slackened on his axe. She yanked back, catching the curved head of the axe with her spear and pulling the weapon out of the Dane’s hands. She jabbed him in the face with the end that he had cut, knocking his head back. His helmet spilled off his head, and she whirled the pole around to collapse the side of his now-bare head.
“Svend!”
Unlike Svend, who was now dead on the ice, the newcomer was still on his horse and his shout warned her of his approach. She ducked under a sweeping blow from his rune-etched sword and thrust her spear between the horse’s legs as it galloped by. The pole was wrenched from her hands as the horse tripped over the shaft. It screamed and collapsed on the ice, and Nika felt a brief flicker of remorse for having injured the horse so badly. She had time to draw her sword as the rider jumped clear of the thrashing beast and slipped on the ice as he tried to orient to her.
“That was my brother, you fucking bitch,” the Dane shouted.
“Come join him,” she snarled. She couldn’t help but think of Zaria, and of her other sisters who would undoubtedly fall today. How many had fallen since the Mongols had come west? How few were left?
If this is the end, she thought, then let this battle be a monument to every one of my sisters who has ever died. Let my sword carve a legacy on this frozen lake that history will never forget.
The Dane charged.
CHAPTER 33:
THE VIRGIN’S MARK
Kristaps caught sight of Nevsky’s banner across the melee and forced his horse toward the flash of red and gold. It was hard to build up speed on the ice, but he managed to get his destrier to a gallop. Remove the head and the rest will falter, he thought. Kill the man and the legend dies. His horse collided with a Druzhina who thought to intercept him, and Kristaps smashed the pommel once, twice, against the other rider before the smaller horse stumbled and went down. His horse leaped, nearly unseating him as it slipped on the ice, but it avoided the other horse and kept running. He fumbled for the reins, trying to control his straining mount as another Druzhina came at him. He got control of the reins and got settled again in his saddle. He swept his sword up and his longer blade meant that his tip sliced into the Druzhina’s arm and shoulder before the other man’s sword was within range.
There was no one else between him and Nevsky.
The prince turned his horse toward Kristaps, presenting a smaller target, and Kristaps brought his sword around in a heavy blow as his horse closed the gap. The prince caught Kristaps’s strike on his finely etched shield and responded with a short jab with his arming sword. Kristaps pulled his blade back across his body, absorbing the blow on the strong edge of the blade, and thrust beneath the lower edge of the prince’s shield, putting his sword in that place where the prince wouldn’t see it coming until it was too late.
The prince’s armor kept the blow from being lethal, but he bent around the stroke nonetheless, his mouth straining open with a loud gasp. He swept his shield to the side as their horses passed. Kristaps’s horse snorted and nearly threw him, but he managed to keep it under control and bring it around again. Nevsky had recovered from the previous blow and blocked Kristaps’s second strike, but this time the force of the blow nearly drove him from the saddle. He was a strong man, and well trained, but Kristaps was stronger, and a better killer by far. Kristaps kept his horse close, and launched a flurry of blows at the prince’s shields, tearing deep rents in the painted heraldry and letting fly the wood beneath.
At Schaulen everything had come apart because Volquin had been blind to the combined strength of the tribes arrayed against them. They had been trapped in the marshy ground along the river, unable to move as quickly, and the Semigallians and Samogitians had rained flight after flight of javelins into their ranks. The Livonian cavalry had been butchered while they foundered in their heavy armor. Kristaps would never forget a moment of that excruciating ordeal—crawling through the mud and muck while his brothers were slaughtered around him by men who wore little more than leather jerkins and fur bracers. The memory drove his sword arm with a relentless and rampant fury. He would smother the memory of Schaulen with blood—the blood of every man, woman, and child in Rus if that was what it took.
The prince remained in his saddle, huddling beneath his scarred shield, but he had lost his sword. The prince’s horse was wide-eyed and skittish, and Kristaps’s destrier was snapping at its flanks with its large teeth.
Kristaps raised his sword. One more blow was all it would take.
The sound of thundering hooves was all that warned him, and the shriek of the panicked horse came too late to avoid what happened next. Kristaps turned to see a horse bearing down on his right flank, out of control as the beast slipped on the ice in the midst of its desperate gallop across the lake’s surface. The rider, unable to stop, raised a gleaming sword and launched a desperate cut at any part of Kristaps he might reach.
He couldn’t twist any further and couldn’t get his sword around in time to block the strike and so he bent back, feeling his balance go as the blade passed over his head. The horses collided and Kristaps launched himself backwards, trying to jump clear of his mount to avoid being crushed. Through the eye-slits of his helm, the world spun in a whirl of white and gray, and then he struck the surface of the ice with a thud that would have left him gasping had he not known how to control his breath.
He had lost his sword, and he cast about for it, spotting it on the ice not far from his right hand. He also saw a man coming at him, and he strained for his sword, getting his hand on it. He twisted onto his back, raising his sword, and caught the downward stroke that would have split his skull in half he had not moved. The tip of the attacker’s sword gouged the ice next to his head. Slipping, Kristaps lashed out with his feet and connected with the other man’s shins. The man s
taggered back and Kristaps rolled onto his side and struggled to his feet before the man could attack him again.
Breathing hard, bruised beneath maille and gambeson, seething with indignant fury, the First Sword of Fellin quickly assessed the situation. The horses were gone, as was the prince. The melee had drifted away from them, leaving nothing but corpses of men and horses on the ice.
His opponent was a slender Ruthenian, carrying a longsword and wearing a maille shirt and half-helm like he was. He could only see the lower half of the man’s face, which was covered with a heavy beard that had once been dark and black, but was now heavily streaked with white. “I know you,” Kristaps said.
“Aye,” the man said. “I’m the ghost of Rus.”
Illarion had been separated from the prince shortly after the initial charge, and when he spotted Kristaps hewing through the crowd of men in an effort to reach the prince, he shouted loudly, trying to warn the prince. He was too far away to reach Alexander in time, and though he lashed his horse heavily in an effort to get it to move more quickly, he could only watch in horror. Kristaps didn’t slow down as he plowed through the pair of Druzhina protecting the prince. The Livonian scythed through men as if he were merely cutting grain. God protect me, Illarion thought, that man can fight.
The chaos of the melee forced him to weave a lengthy path to reach the prince, clinging to the saddle when his horse stumbled perilously. He turned aside blows when they came and wheeled to evade collisions where he had to. He pushed his horse to a reckless speed on the ice, trying so desperately to reach the duel between knight and prince before it was too late.
Everything could be undone with the next stroke of the Livonian’s sword. He had to stop Kristaps. He had to get there in time. The frothing breath of his horse rose like a cloud of steam as man and beast surged forward recklessly to the wheeling duel unfolding so close, but so impossibly far to reach when everything could be undone in seconds.
Kristaps was raining heavy blows on the prince’s shield, and Illarion could see how each blow pushed the prince a little closer to the edge of his saddle. He slapped his reins hard against his horse’s neck, pushing the horse faster than it wanted to run on the slippery ice. The wound on his forearm blazed with pain and he slapped his horse, urging it to run faster. His horse staggered and slipped, and Illarion realized that he was going to collide with Kristaps. He no longer had any control of his horse.
He swung his sword once, a desperate swing, and it hit nothing. He had no choice but to leap free of his saddle before he went down with his horse. He landed heavily on the ice, slipping to one knee, and he felt the frozen lake surface flex and groan beneath him. Kristaps had fared less well, and Illarion dashed forward to finish the Livonian off before the other man could retrieve his sword.
Kristaps was incredibly fast, and Illarion’s heavy downward stroke was blocked at the last second, diverting the tip of his blade into the ice. Illarion was over-extended, leaning too far forward, and when Kristaps retaliated with a kick to Illarion’s shin, he nearly pitched forward.
Illarion staggered back, regaining his footing and his measure. He didn’t rush in a second time, and the Livonian knight managed to get to his feet.
He hadn’t realized how tall Kristaps was, or how long his arms were. Suddenly he realized his longsword wasn’t going to be long enough against the better reach of the greatsword.
Kristaps was staring at him, his head cocked to one side. He pointed slowly at Illarion. “I know you,” the Livonian said, a mocking tone in his voice.
Illarion snarled his answer, struggling to hide his apprehension about the Livonian’s advantage.
“Ghost, eh?” Kristaps answered. He laughed. “You’re a disgrace,” he spat. “You abandoned everything you held dear, including God. Your story may be a frightful tale for little children and old women, but I know you to be flesh and blood. And when I have sent you to Hell, you can sit with all the other men I have killed. There are many, and they were all better men than you.” He pointed at the red-stained scarf around Illarion’s forearm. “Did they mark you?” he asked. “Was it supposed to give you strength in this battle to overcome your enemies?”
Kristaps clawed at the sleeve of his maille shirt, pulling it up on his right arm. “I have one too,” he snapped. “It means nothing.”
Illarion stared at the smeared scar on the Livonian’s forearm. The mark of the Shield-Brethren! Kristaps had been tested, but hadn’t passed.
And suddenly it was all clear to Illarion, and he couldn’t help but laugh.
“Stop that,” Kristaps snarled, taking a step toward Illarion, his blade held ready.
“I feel sorry for you,” Illarion said, and Kristaps reacted as if he had been stung by a bee. Before the Livonian could recover from his shock, Illarion leaped forward, his blade thrusting before him.
The blow came with a cold fury, forcing Kristaps to pivot back and parry with an upward stroke. He tried to leverage his position into a thrust at Illarion’s face, but the Ruthenian evaded it with a compass step, shuffling his feet across the slick ice, and his sword flicked at Kristaps’s hands. God in heaven, he’s fast.
The First Sword of Fellin rotated the hilt of his sword down, narrowly saving his fingers from being broken, and again tried to put the end of his sword through Illarion’s jaw. Once more Illarion checked the thrust and responded with a cut at Kristaps’s midsection. Volquin’s Dragon struck it aside with the back edge of his greatsword and cut in response with the true edge at the Ruthenian’s arms. Illarion parried, now two inches out of range due to his shorter weapon, and they separated, regarding one another as they circled like a pair of snarling wolves.
“I remember this exchange,” Kristaps sneered. “One of the favorites taught by the Old Man of the Rock. Is Feronantus still alive? Still sending out boys out to fight his wars for him?”
Illarion was breathing heavily but his shoulders were straight and his footwork was careful and solid. Only his eyes betrayed his anxiety, and when he mentioned the old man’s name, he saw them flicker toward the shore. “Your fight is with me,” Illarion said, his voice cold and steady.
Kristaps smiled. “But he’s here, isn’t he?” He felt a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach—part elation and part something more primal. It wasn’t fear; if anything, the debt owed to him was the source of a long-simmering hatred. No, the distant unease he felt was dread. If the old man truly was here, then not everything was as it seemed. Much like it had been at Kiev.
The ice creaked beneath them, and his stomach tightened reflexively.
There is no time for this irrational fear, he chided himself. Feronantus was old; he was in the prime of his life. He had the superior numbers. There was no way he could lose this battle. Even wasting his time with this Ruthenian—this man who claimed to be the ghost of Rus—would not deter him from his victory.
Kristaps moved first, and Illarion was forced to check Kristaps’s sword by moving his weapon from low to middle. Kristaps pivoted to the right, letting the parry propel his weapon in the opposite direction which created a natural barrier to Illarion’s expected counterattack. But the Ruthenian didn’t follow through as expected, and Kristaps didn’t pause to wonder why. He turned his hands and brought his edge up in a vicious cut toward Illarion’s head.
But the Ruthenian wasn’t where he was supposed to be, and for a second, Kristaps’s mind was clouded with a noisy voice crying out that the man was indeed a ghost, for only a phantom could have moved that adroitly.
Kristaps reversed his sword, sweeping it up with a stroke that would surely separate head from shoulders should it connect, and Illarion dropped to a half-crouch, keeping his sword covering his head in case Kristaps changed his mind. Footing on the ice was treacherous enough that such a move was foolhardy, for his center was woefully out of alignment, but getting low meant getting under Kristaps’s guard. Illarion’s sword was shorter; he couldn’t keep fighting at Kristaps’s measure. He’d never get close
enough. This was the only way. As the greatsword sailed over his head, he leaped forward. Too close to thrust or cut, he drove the hard edge of his crossguard into the space beneath the bottom of the Livonian’s helm. Kristaps wore a coif, a covering of maille over his head and neck, but the links were not as heavy as elsewhere.
Kristaps’s head snapped back and his helm flew off his head, clattering across the ice. Illarion got a brief glimpse of the Livonian’s sweat-covered face and wide eyes before the Livonian recovered from the painful jab in the neck. Kristaps grabbed for him, and Illarion darted out of the way, shoving a hand against Kristaps’s elbow. Kristaps kept moving forward, though, and he snapped his arm back, catching Illarion on the side of the head with his elbow.
The blow skewed his helmet and made his ears ring, and he retreated another step, anticipating that Kristaps would try to hit him again, most likely with the heavy pommel of his greatsword. He hewed upward with his sword, hoping to connect, and felt the edge of his blade clash against Kristaps’s maille.
Kristaps didn’t come any closer, but he was still close enough for his greatsword, and Illarion brought his sword back into a defensive position in time to parry Kristaps’s sweeping stroke. Kristaps shoved his sword off Illarion’s and reversed directions, striking at the other side of his head. Illarion was forced to retreat, his parry crumpling under the heavy weight of Kristaps’s sword.
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 35
