Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Read online

  CHAPTER 16:

  THE WITCH IN THE WOODS

  Nika waited until the hour just before dawn, when the sentries were most lethargic, when the weight of the night was heavy upon their shoulders and their thoughts continually strayed toward warm fires and furs. While the prince, his Druzhina, and many of the boyar’s sons in the prince’s army remained in Novgorod after the procession and feast, the bulk of the army had set up camp a few miles from the city, sprawling across the fields and forests near the river. This made it much easier for her to sneak out of the camp; she did not have to worry about scaling a wall or evading the Novgorodian guard. She moved carefully through the woods, her feet making no sound as she danced across the snow, and once she was far enough from the camp to be sure no one could hear run, she ran faster.

  The previous night, as she and her sisters were setting up their tents, she had spotted markings on several trees. They were not the idle scratches left by a bear sharpening its claws or a deer knocking its horns against the winter-hardened bark. They were too similar, from tree to tree, to be an accident and had anyone else noticed the marks, they might have thought them to be symbols left by hunters or trappers. They might have been sigils marking the presence of a predator that might disrupt traps or indicating routes that could be easily obscured by snowfall, which would have explained why they were carved higher on the tree trunks than any man or woman could reach, but Nika knew otherwise.

  They were a summons.

  She crested a hill and found a small animal path that led her down the other side. She followed it, her eyes sweeping back and forth as she ran. She wasn’t worried about meeting any deer or wolves. The prince might have far-ranging scouts that she didn’t want to startle. They would be inclined to put an arrow into her before bothering to identify her.

  By and by, the faint sounds of running water reached her ears, the gentle bubbling of a melting stream somewhere ahead, and she slowed, lest she come upon it unawares. Winter’s grip was loosening, but the weather was still crisp and a dunking in meltwater would be dangerous. She was too far from the fires of the prince’s camp.

  So intent was she on keeping her eyes out for the stream that she did not realize she had stumbled upon a camp site until she stood in its center. It was so cleverly obscured by bramble and bowed trees that she would not have noticed it at all if she hadn’t literally walked right into it.

  It is only here because I needed to find it, she thought, as she turned in a slow circle. The grass had been trampled down as if by a herd of horses, and a small ring of mottled stones indicated a fire pit, though there were no ashes within the ring. Three of the stones were human skulls, and she felt her stomach knot when she realized they were small enough that they had to be the skulls of children. One was pale and gray, so old that the stark whiteness of the bone had faded; the second was darkened with ash and the eye sockets were darker holes; the jaw of the third gaped at her, the teeth smeared with a sticky redness. One for those long buried, she thought, one for those we lost recently, and one for those still to die.

  Something massive moved behind her, the grinding sound of stone against stone, and Nika froze. Her heart was pounding in her chest, the loud echo filling her ears, and a slippery shiver ran down her back. She turned slowly, struggling to swallow the urge to scream. It was one thing to see a ghost at a distance, where it could be dismissed as a trick of fog and shadow; it was another thing entirely to be in the presence of a ghost.

  Behind her, seated on a wooden stool as if she had been there the entire time, was a huddled figure wrapped in a cloak so dank and foul that its original color could not be determined. Wrinkled hands that were more birdlike than human poked out from the sleeves, and in the crone’s lap was a mortar and pestle. The terrifying sounds that Nika had heard were nothing more than the noise made as the pestle ground seeds into a fine paste. The grinding motion sounded like a giant chewing rocks very slowly and very deliberately.

  “Dusk, night, and dawn,” the crone cackled. “They watch now, but once they were heroes. Like you. Like the one who has lost both his heart and his ear. Like the one who yearns for communion with the spirit.”

  Nika’s mouth was dry, and the icy chill down her back was still there. It felt like a river of sweat was racing down her spine. “Mother crone,” she started.

  “Sit, little daughter,” the crone rasped, her voice suddenly much deeper and much more menacing.

  Nika obeyed, folding her legs beneath her.

  “You have not told him yet,” the crone said. Her voice was softer now, almost matronly in its tenderness.

  “I haven’t,” Nika said. “He struggles with his despair. I don’t know if he is ready.”

  “Who ever is?” the crone asked. “What of your sisters?”

  This, at least, was an easy question for Nika to answer. “We train often with the Kynaz’s guard, the Druzhina. They are eager”—she hesitated to say it so bluntly, but then decided there was no reason not to do so—“they are eager for the experience.”

  The prince’s private guard was well equipped and a number of them had been battle tested, but not to the same degree as the Shield-Maidens. If Illarion had not said as much to the prince, she knew the Northman—Ozur—had most likely done so. Training with the Druzhina was much less contentious these days than it had been when the Shield-Maidens had first joined the prince’s army.

  “The Skjalddis have protected this land for generations, and I would expect them to be ready with their swords and spears,” Baba Yaga said. “But who protects this realm when your numbers are few?”

  “Our numbers?” Nika asked. “Against this Teutonic army?” She felt her face grow hot. “Or do you speak of what happened at Kiev when the Mongol horde came? They outnumbered us more than a thousand to one. It was a miracle that we were able to fight them off at all. Was that not enough?” Her hands tightened into fists. “Should we have ridden out in full panoply and engaged them until they brought all of us down?”

  The crone put back her head and laughed, a long cackle that sounded like the call of a hundred geese. Nika got her first glimpse at the pale face beneath the hood, and the bright eyes that stared out of a shrunken face. “Little daughter, the Mongols pillage and burn, but they are like the winter snow—gone before the following spring,” Baba Yaga said after her amusement bubbled away. “Rus has endured such conquerors before and will again. But they are not the true danger that threatens Rus. They are not the ones who mean to bend Rus to their will now and forever.”

  Nika tightened her fists and then relaxed them, understanding what the crone was telling her. “The knights of the red cross and sword,” she said. “The Livonians.”

  “The sword and cross,” Baba Yaga said, nodding her head. “And behind those, the two curved staves.”

  “We beat them once,” Nika said. “At Kiev.”

  “Aye,” the crone agreed. “But with the assistance of the Skjaldbrœður. But you did not kill the one who mattered most. The disgraced knight.”

  “Who?” Nika asked, wondering who the crone was talking about, but she realized she knew. “Kristaps,” she said.

  “Aye,” the crone said. “The one leading the army against you, against Rus. He is the one who came a-thieving to the caves of the Lavra. He is the one who binds the three of you together.”

  “The three of us?” Nika asked, looking at the skulls again and trying to remember what the witch had just said about them. Dusk, night, and dawn. “Who is the third?”

  “He will come,” Baba Yaga said. “He resists the path he must take, but he will find his way before this is done.”

  “And Kristaps is leading the Teutonic army?” Nika asked, trying to get a straight answer out of the crone on some matter at least. “Is that why he binds us together?”

  “He bears the marks,” Baba Yaga said. She held up her right arm and the sleeve of her robe fell back, exposing her bony forearm. On the pale flesh, a shadow writhed—a moon filled with stars that,
as Nika stared, changed into a sigil of a tree bound by a circle, and then Baba Yaga slid her sleeve down again and the image was gone. “Some brotherhoods leave their marks, both on those they exalt and those they shame. Some marks are more apparent than others, to those who know how to see. This false Skjaldbrœður knows what you and your sisters are. He is the greed of Rome, made flesh, but he is the champion of something much older.”

  Half-told stories and old wives tales flashed through Nika’s head. She was no scholar of the history of her order, though like any of her sisters, she knew of the legacy that bound the Shield-Maidens to both Týrshammar and Petraathen. There were older stories, fables murmured by mothers to their daughters as they huddled before the hearth, stories of sundered siblings and of broken branches. Behind all these stories were hints of an ancient animosity, a rivalry that had caused the first rift. It was always there, the wound that lay at the heart of the world. The wound that would never heal.

  “Is that why you have summoned me?” Nika asked. Her mouth was dry and she yearned to scoop a handful of snow off one of the nearby branches and put it in her mouth.

  “I did no such thing,” Baba Yaga said. She peered at the contents of her mortar. “You came. You found me.”

  Nika could have contested that claim, but then she realized it was true, from a certain point of view. She had seen the marks on the trees and interpreted them in a certain way. She had left the prince’s camp. She had wandered into this glade where the crone was idly crushing seeds. It was a twisted version of what had happened, but she saw why the crone was speaking this way.

  “I need allies,” Nika said. Baba Yaga wouldn’t tell her what to do. She had to make her own decisions. The Virgin—in this case, the crone—supported the daughters of the shield. Nika knew the Skjaldbrœður were more inclined to seek guidance from the Virgin, but the Skjalddis were much more independent. They had to be; they thrived only when each sister accepted the burden of being a woman who carried arms.

  “The Spirit of Rus is stirring,” Baba Yaga said, and her cowled head lifted to take in the whole of the snow-covered forest that surrounded them. “A branch that was thought lost has been found. Things that have not been seen since the ancient times are making themselves felt again.”

  Nika’s gaze wandered back to the stone circle and its three skulls as she wondered whether she should rejoice or be truly terrified at the idea of ancient things returning. The old tales were full of wonders, yes, but also of horrors. The skulls gaped at her. Dusk, night, and dawn. The fate of heroes was to be carved up into bloody pieces to be used in the rituals of others. We lift up the mightiest amongst us, she thought, and devour them when they fall.

  “He isn’t ready either,” Baba Yaga said. “Illarion Illarionovich might think himself done with this world, but it is not finished with him. Ties of blood bind him to these affairs as surely as those of tradition and old power bind you and me. He will realize this soon enough. You will see it for yourself. You will know.”

  Nika’s gaze lingered for a second longer on the blood-smeared skull and then she returned her attention to the crone. “Aye, and then I will tell him.”

  Baba Yaga set her pestle down on her lap and carefully poured the contents of the mortar out into the palm of her wizened hand. The seeds had been crushed to a yellow powder, and the dust settled in the deep lines of the old woman’s hand. “Tell him what?” Baba Yaga asked, and then she raised her hand to her mouth and blew the powder at Nika.

  Nika stepped back, coughing, as a cloud of yellow smoke billowed up from Baba Yaga’s hand. It filled the camp within moments, stinging her eyes and choking her. Nika staggered back, her feet tripping over rocks and roots. Branches caught at her, shoving her in different directions. The fog dissipated quickly, and when Nika’s eyes stopped watering, she found herself standing on the bank of a narrow stream.

  There was no sign of the camp, and when she thrashed through the woods, she found no sign that it had ever existed.

  Illarion was with the prince when a breathless runner announced that the banners of the Grand Duke, Alexander’s brother Andrei, had been sighted. “At last,” the prince muttered. The Veche were, in the prince’s privately expressed opinion, perpetually slow to act, and while the call for the militia had been quick to go out after the Kynaz’s arrival at Novgorod, the remainder of the preparations for war had proceeded sluggishly. The Kynaz’s army numbered more than four thousand and their camp filled the valley beyond the city walls. The arrival of Andrei’s forces would swell that number, putting even more of a strain on the city to support so many men. The Veche could not ignore the strain such an encamped force put on the meager winter stores of Novgorod.

  Illarion followed Alexander out of the prince’s command tent, squinting against the bright morning light. To the south, winding their way toward the Kynaz’s camp, was a field of fluttering banners. Eastern crosses joined with armed beasts on brightly colored fields, and gilded helms gleamed in the sun. “Six hundred Druzhina,” Alexander said, shading his eyes. “All mounted.” He offered Illarion a tight smile. There would be, Illarion knew, nearly that number again in men-at-arms, squires, and other attendants.

  A trio of riders galloped before the approaching force, two Druzhina flanking a tall man on a large grey horse. The Grand Duke was older than the prince and more battle-experienced. Many of Yaroslav’s sons had fought the Mongols when Batu Khan had assaulted Rus, but they had been defeated and scattered. When Novgorod had exiled Alexander, Yaroslav had sent Andrei as Nevsky’s replacement, but the Grand Duke had not stayed long. He was an effective leader, as far as Illarion knew, but the stories he heard said that Andrei was not as brilliant a tactician as his younger brother.

  The Grand Duke brought his horse to a stop not far from Alexander and dismounted with a flourish of his cloak. A crowd had followed him in and when he took a moment to wave at them, they cheered his arrival. He was a larger version of Alexander, broader in chest and face, with the same red-brown beard, although his was thicker. Even as he smiled at the crowd, there was a hint of a darker mood in his face. They cheer him, Illarion thought, but this army is here because of Alexander. He glanced at Alexander, but was unable to read anything in the younger brother’s expression.

  Andrei strode up to Alexander and the two sons of Yaroslav regarded each other with a practiced ease that belied the tension Illarion could sense between them. It was Alexander who smiled first, and strode forward to embrace his elder brother with open arms. Illarion blinked, and the tension he had imagined was gone like a snowflake melting away on warm skin, and both men were slapping each other on the backs and laughing like the oldest of friends.

  “We would have been here sooner, but the ice has been melting,” Andrei said. “Many of the rivers are flowing free again. Getting all of these men across without losing anyone took a lot of time.” He slapped Alexander on the shoulder again. “How many do we have now?”

  “More than five thousand if you brought as many men as it seems you did,” Alexander replied, smiling broadly when Andrei acknowledged his estimate. “Come,” he said, indicating the command tent behind Illarion. “Let us eat and drink and discuss what we are going to do with five thousand men.”

  Andrei nodded, and the two men strode toward the tent. Illarion marveled at the manner in which the prince had deflected the earlier tension. What we are going to do with five thousand men. The Kynaz already had his battle plans in mind, but with a single sentence he had brought his brother into his confidence, suggesting that nothing had been decided yet.

  Illarion caught sight of Nika making her way through the crowd and he waited for the Shield-Maiden. “I was looking for you earlier,” he said when she reached him.

  “I was…hunting,” Nika said.

  Illarion waited a moment for her to offer more but she didn’t, and he shrugged and indicated the Kynaz’s tent. Nika ducked her head, and Illarion caught sight of something like relief in her eyes as she walked past him. He fell
in behind her, puzzled by her distance, but he could ask her later.

  Alexander nodded as they entered the tent, and before the Druzhina closed the flaps behind them, he ordered that Ozur and the other Northman commander be located and sent hither. “We might as well do all the planning now,” he explained to his brother. He introduced both Illarion and Nika, and Andrei was cordial and graceful in his greeting. Illarion suspected the charm was more for Nika than for him. He had seen Andrei’s eyes widen slightly when Alexander had mentioned Volodymyr-Volynskyi.

  “Will five thousand be enough?” Andrei said once the pleasantries were done and they had all fallen to examining the battle map laid out on the table.

  “Riders have gone to all the surrounding tribes and the men are still coming, but it is a mere trickle now,” Alexander said. “Archers and infantry, mostly. Our Druzhina will provide the cavalry, along with the Skjalddis from Kiev.”

  Again, the emphasis. Our. Even though Alexander’s company of mounted knights outnumbered his brother’s.

  “And the ghost of Volodymyr,” Andrei said, regarding Illarion uneasily. “You are not as dead as I had heard. What do they call you?”

  “Plank,” Nika offered, a smile curling the corners of her mouth.

  “Do you fight from horseback with such a piece of wood?” Andrei asked. “Or will you be on foot with the other…?”

  Peasants was the word unsaid, and Illarion struggled to keep his tongue civil. He had felt this sort of animosity from some of the boyars of the Veche during the feast thrown in Alexander’s honor, but there had been enough mead flowing at the celebration that it had been easy to ignore most of the jibes. But the undercurrent was there: they did not like him. He was one of them and he had surrendered to the Mongols. It did not matter the reasons why he had done so; all that mattered was that he was a reminder of what the Mongols had done to Ruthenian nobility. Being trampled to death by horses was brutal and it symbolized everything foul and barbaric about the Mongols. Illarion reminded the boyars of their own frail mortality. But there is more to it than that, Illarion realized as he looked at the Grand Duke.