He was struggling to catch his breath, and he kept slipping as he tried to center his weight. In the back of his mind, he thought he felt the ice flexing, but he pushed the thought aside. It didn’t matter.
Kristaps came at him again, and Illarion remained on the defensive, blocking each strike but failing to find an opening where he could close. He heard a pounding noise and thought it was the sound of his blood in his ears, but he caught sight of movement on his left. A horseman was approaching, and he couldn’t figure out if the man was one of Kristaps’s or the prince’s. He and Kristaps both separated as the rider bore down on them, and Illarion saw a flash of dark fur and the curved shape of a bow. Almost like…
The ice snapped beneath him and the ground shifted suddenly. A long groan followed as well as the sound of moving water, and Illarion’s attention snapped to the surface of the lake.
When the shield-wall had forced the Livonians out onto the lake, the battle had spread out across the ice. As a result, he and Kristaps were no longer in the center of the melee, but they were far enough from shore to be surrounded by ice. While the lake was shallowest where it was narrowest, it was still deeper than a man’s height. Should the ice break, he would freeze to death before he could climb out of the water.
Kristaps stood not far away, a murderous fury in his eyes. He shook his bloody sword at Illarion. “What will you do, ghost?” the Livonian shouted. “If you run, I might cut you down before you can reach the shore. If you stay and fight, the ice may break before you kill me and we will both die. What choice will you make?”
Illarion gripped his sword tightly in his right hand and waved Kristaps over with his left. “I will kill you, monster,” he taunted.
Kristaps laughed as he charged.
The Ruthenian dodged his thrust and moved to his right, keeping out of reach of his blade. The man fought well, and he had found his footing on the ice, but Kristaps had studied with the same oplo. He knew the techniques as well as Illarion, and when the Ruthenian tried to close and body-check him, he was already moving out of the way. Illarion kept coming, and it was all too easy to bring his hands up and slam the pommel of his sword into the side of the man’s helm.
Illarion staggered, and Kristaps pivoted, intending to get behind the clumsy Ruthenian and finish him with a single stroke across the neck, but his leg refused to move like it should. Pain lanced up his side, breaking his concentration, and he nearly fell as his leg threatened to give out on him. Stumbling like a drunkard, Kristaps stared down at the bright flow of blood coursing down his thigh.
Illarion’s sword had struck him on the hip as they had passed, somehow slipping beneath the maille skirt and over the steel that guarded his legs. There was no time to assess how deep the wound was. He could still stand and move, but the bleeding was severe.
For the first time in many years, he felt something twist in his guts that he had nearly forgotten.
He hobbled after the Ruthenian, raining blows down on him as quickly as he could. He would not succumb to the fear. He would not let it steal his strength. Illarion was tired. The strike against his helm had dazed him. There was still time to finish this fight. The thing in his belly drove him onward. To lose here and now, to die in this wretched place on the cusp of what was to be his greatest triumph, was unthinkable. He would kill this man, and then he would find the prince and kill him as well. He would still triumph.
But his first blow was checked, as was his second and his third. The Ruthenian did not have the strength to counterattack, but he was still managing to block Kristaps’s strikes. He could feel blood running down his leg, the hot liquid filling his boot. With each stroke of his sword, he was closer to death. All Illarion had to do was keep blocking his attacks and eventually he would falter as his blood ran out. He had to end this fight.
He feinted, drawing Illarion’s parry, and spun his sword into a savage thrust with all of his remaining strength. He felt the tip of his sword catch on the Ruthenian’s maille, and then he felt the grinding motion of the rings parting beneath the force of his strike. He kept up the pressure on his sword and was rewarded with a spasm of pain twisting Illarion’s mouth. He set his teeth on edge as he pulled his sword back, knowing the blade might catch on the ruined maille. He felt it come free and Illarion gasped, wrenching himself around Kristaps’s blade, trapping it between his chest and arm.
Kristaps’s attention faltered as he struggled to free his sword, and his vision blurred for a second. It cleared just in time for him to see Illarion bulling forward, his helm lowered. He tried to pull back, but Illarion’s helm smashed into his jaw with such force that his left leg gave out.
He landed heavily on the ice, spitting blood and bits of broken teeth, and Illarion landed on top of him. Kristaps twisted on the slippery ice, trying to throw the Ruthenian off him, and he lost track of his sword. The Ruthenian reached for his face and Kristaps snapped at the extended fingers. The motion of his jaw sent shards of pain blasting through his face and he howled like a wounded bear. With a mighty heave, he shoved Illarion off his chest and rolled clear.
He came up on one knee, casting about for his sword, and Illarion slammed into him. The Ruthenian had cast aside his sword too, and instead he bore a narrow dagger in his hand. He ripped upward, and the blade dragged across the maille covering Kristaps’s belly. He caught Illarion in a half-hug, struggling to grapple with the Ruthenian, and Illarion took advantage of the clinch to bury the dagger in Kristaps’s left shoulder.
Kristaps spit a mouthful of blood into the Ruthenian’s face, and as the other man flinched, he wrapped his hand around the hilt of the dagger and yanked it free. He slashed wildly with it, and the Ruthenian strained back to avoid the cut. He missed the pale swatch of skin that was Illarion’s throat, but he felt the blade catch and tear through the maille directly below.
There was blood in Illarion’s eyes and blood soaking his gambeson beneath his maille. He stared stupidly at the blade in Kristaps’s hand, dumbly trying to figure out how the Livonian had gotten it from him, and it was only as Kristaps tried to stab him again that he snapped out of the stupor that had enveloped him. He blocked the Livonian’s thrust with his arms extended, hands crossed, and tried to clear to his left. Kristaps struggled against him, and the tip of the blade scraped across the front of his helm.
The ice shuddered beneath them, and Illarion lost his footing. He was still hanging on to Kristaps’s arm, but his balance was awry and the larger man shoved him heavily, sending him sprawling onto the tilting ice.
How can that be possible? part of him wondered.
He banged his head against a protrusion in the ice, a large knob that couldn’t have been there a few minutes ago, and his vision swam. He blinked and found himself standing behind his wife on the balcony of their home. He blinked again and saw his son, playing with other children in Volodymyr’s broad square. He blinked once more and he was in the sitting room of his father’s estate. Warm light flooded through the high windows, illuminating motes of gathering dust over books that were piled haphazardly around the roots of a tall tree that was growing out of the wall. How can that be possible?
Kristaps was standing over him, but his attention wasn’t on Illarion’s sprawled body. The Livonian was looking wildly around, a moaning noise coming out of his ruined mouth. Illarion struggled to sit up and pulled off his helm to see what was happening.
A scattered stream of blood-stained survivors were running and slipping and sliding across the ice. The invaders were retreating. Their charge had been broken and their ranks decimated. The prince had won.
As Illarion watched, men began disappearing, vanishing from view as the ice around them collapsed and crumbled. Very few surfaced briefly, struggling to climb out of the freezing water, but no one stopped to help any of them.
Kristaps eclipsed Illarion’s view briefly, and he realized the Livonian was fleeing too, leaving a bright trail of blood in his wake. Illarion spotted his sword lying on the ice and he staggered
to his feet, lurching sideways as the ice moved beneath him again. He grabbed his sword and started after the stumbling Livonian.
It wasn’t over. Not until he was certain Kristaps wouldn’t return. Not until the dead in Pskov had been avenged. Not until his own debts were paid.
His first stroke didn’t penetrate the Livonian’s armor, but the force of the blow knocked him to his knees. As Illarion came around Kristaps so that he could look the Livonian in the eye as he killed him, Kristaps lunged forward. Illarion danced back, but Kristaps managed to get a hand on his leg and pull him off balance. He fell onto his back.
Spewing blood and roaring incoherently, Kristaps launched himself forward, diving for Illarion. Illarion’s dagger was held tightly in his right fist, and his blue eyes were incandescent with fury.
His expression changed when Illarion’s sword pierced his chest. His momentum carried him forward, and with a horrible tearing noise, the blade emerged from his back. He grabbed at Illarion with his left hand, his fingers closing feebly.
Illarion felt a burning pain in his lower chest when he tried to inhale. When he looked down, he saw the hilt of his dagger protruding from his torso.
The ice tilted around him, and a hole opened beyond Kristaps’s feet; the white ice vanished into a dark hole of icy water. Kristaps began to slide toward the water. The light fading from his eyes, the Livonian dug his fingers into the links of Illarion’s maille.
Illarion wrapped his hands around Kristaps’s, holding them tight to his belly. “Let us go together,” he said. “As the brothers we never were.” He jerked his body toward the hole in the ice. Kristaps tried to scream, his shattered jaw flopping horribly, and Illarion was spared hearing the awful noise as they slid across the ice and fell through the hole. Freezing water rushed over them.
He felt as if every inch of his flesh was being pierced by knives. The fog cleared from his mind, and in the wavering shadows of the water, he thought he saw the smiling faces of his wife and son.
He opened his mouth and didn’t struggle as the cold water of Lake Peipus rushed in. Illarion let go of Kristaps—letting the bloody monster sink away—and stretched out his hand towards his family.
Let us go together…
CHAPTER 34:
THE OLD MAN’S LEGACY
When the prince gave the command for the cavalry to charge, Feronantus held out his hand to Raphael and shook his head. Raphael glared at the old master of the Rock but held his reins tight. Around him, the prince’s cavalry charged, a thunder of horses and men, and in its wake came the men-at-arms, shouting and waving their weapons as they surged forward to help the Skjalddis hold the line. As the flood of men slowed to a trickle, Feronantus pulled his horse to the left, away from the tumultuous battle at the edge of the lake.
“Where are we going?” Raphael shouted. Vera clucked at her horse and followed Feronantus, leaving Raphael as the only horseman on the bank. With a loud curse, Raphael yanked on his reins and turned his horse after the pair.
Since they had left Benjamin’s estate a month ago, Feronantus had spoken less than two dozen sentences to Raphael. He had conversed with Vera numerous times, but she had, maddeningly, refused to speak of what they had discussed. While it was clear that Feronantus was displeased with him, it had taken a while to realize Feronantus’s displeasure had little do with anything that Raphael had done, but that it stemmed from Raphael’s own disgust. And this only increased Raphael’s dismay. How could Feronantus blame him for what had happened? More than once during their headlong ride north toward Rus and Novgorod, Raphael had considered refusing to travel another mile without some explanation from Feronantus, but he never could do it. He could never be that dismissive to his vows.
Even now, his head still filled with outrage, he followed Feronantus, away from the heart of the battle.
Feronantus led his horse down to the frozen lake and dismounted at the edge of the ice. He pulled the blackened Spirit Banner from its sling and, walking with the measured pace of a man used to icy terrain, he strode out onto the ice. Raphael and Vera left their horses as well, and before he stepped out onto the ice, Raphael looked over his shoulder once to check on the battle.
The line was holding and even seemed to be pushing the Livonians back toward the lake.
“We’re exposed,” Vera said to him as he joined her on the ice. She was carrying her crossbow in addition to her shield and sword. Her breath steamed from her mouth, and she stripped her helm off and threw it on the bank near her horse. Raphael did the same, realizing that out on the open ice, he wanted to be able to see anything that might be coming at him.
Bending his knees, he jogged ahead, catching up with Feronantus. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“Just a little ways,” Feronantus said, pointing with his chin. He glanced at Raphael. “I owe you an explanation,” he said. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long. I will tell you everything in a few minutes.”
To his right, the battle reached the ice and the sound of swords hitting wood and steel increased as the Livonian infantry joined the battle. Raphael saw one of the two Shield-Brethren banners dip and then right itself. The banner belonging to the prince fluttered near the closer edge of the fray, and he thought he could pick out the Kynaz on his horse.
He also spotted the white tabard and the red cross of a Livonian. “There,” he said, pointing. “Is that him?”
“Aye,” Feronantus said. “That is Kristaps, the First Sword of Fellin. Also known as Volquin’s Dragon. A terrible failure on my part.”
“Failure? How are you responsible?” Vera asked, catching up with them.
Feronantus offered her a sad smile. “I trained him at Týrshammar. He was an incredible student, and I had high hopes for him, but…”
He stopped, seemingly at random, and placed the butt of the Spirit Banner against the ice and leaned heavily against it.
“He failed his initiation,” Raphael finished for Feronantus. “You sent him to Petraathen, and he didn’t pass the final test. Did he miss the sword?”
Feronantus shook his head. “No, he didn’t miss.” He touched the inside of his forearm lightly. “He grabbed the handle tight with both hands and held on.”
“He dropped the shield,” Raphael said, and Feronantus nodded sadly.
“Ah,” Vera said, not bothering to hide her distain.
“The tree rots from the inside first, and the poison has already set in,” Feronantus said. “Kristaps was the first fruit that was spoiled before it could even be plucked from the tree. There will be others, and we cannot weather change or adapt to the times as once we did. What we protect, what we teach, the purpose for our existence, must be protected. A branch must always survive, and the legacy must be carried on.”
Feronantus tapped the Spirit Banner against the ice as if he were testing its thickness. “We talked of the Vor, you and I,” he said to Raphael. “You do not share my conviction, and you have a strong dislike for those of us who stress the importance of faith in how we allow ourselves to be guided.”
“Aye, that I do,” Raphael said.
“Whatever happens next, I want you to remember one thing, Raphael of Acre,” Feronantus said, staring intently at Raphael. “Your strength—your steadfast refusal to believe that we are anything more than men who are as faithful as we are fallible—is what will save the order. Never let go of that. Never falter.”
Raphael stared at Feronantus, unable to decide what to say.
“Swear it,” Feronantus thundered, slamming the Spirit Banner against the ice. “Swear an oath that you will never—”
“No,” Raphael said quietly.
“Raphael—” Vera said, touching Raphael lightly on the arm.
“No,” Raphael repeated. “I will swear no vow to you, Feronantus. I do not need such an oath to support me.”
Feronantus released the Spirit Banner and clasped Raphael roughly in a tight embrace. Raphael struggled to breathe, and he awkwardly returned the embrace. �
�The Virgin loves you,” Feronantus whispered in his ear. “More than you will ever acknowledge.”
Over the old man’s shoulder, Raphael stared at the upright Spirit Banner. No one was holding it in place and yet it did not fall.
Feronantus released him and embraced Vera next. Still staring at the upright staff, Raphael gingerly reached for it. As his fingers brushed the pole, it moved, and he grabbed at it quickly before it fell over. There was no hole in the ice where it could have been stuck, and he turned to Feronantus with a question on his lips.
The question died in his throat. “Look out!” he shouted, leaping forward to shove Feronantus aside.
A horse and rider were coming toward them. Raphael didn’t know where they had come from, but he recognized the horse as a short-legged Mongol steed. He recognized the rider too from his white hair. Graymane…
The arrow from Alchiq’s bow caught him square in the chest and stuck in his maille. He stumbled backward, bumping into Feronantus. He heard Vera’s crossbow string twang, and watched the bolt sail through the air where Alchiq would have been had he remained upright in his saddle, but the agile Mongol had slid to one side. As Alchiq popped back up, he raised his bow and loosed another arrow. Raphael had an instant to regret not keeping his helmet before the arrow spun past his face so close that the fletching burned across his cheek. He heard a guttural cough behind him, and as Vera shrieked and hurled her empty crossbow at the approaching horse, Raphael turned his head.
Alchiq’s arrow jutted out from the base of Feronantus’s neck. It was off to the left side and most likely not fatal. With a curse, Feronantus reached up and snapped the shaft of the arrow off several inches from his neck.
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 36
