Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Read online

  “Would you care to step outside this tent?” Illarion asked. He, at least, kept his anger out of his voice, though it was there in his words. “I’d be happy to demonstrate.”

  The Grand Duke stared at him, his face reddening, and Alexander was about to interject when another voice interrupted the staring contest. “Gods, no,” Ozur said from the entrance of the tent. “I can attest to his ability to raise a welt with a piece of wood.” He pointed at the fading mark on his right cheek.

  Silence filled the tent, and nearly everyone was looking to the Grand Duke for a reaction, and it came slowly. His beard parted as he smiled, and his mouth kept stretching as he let loose with a loud bray of laughter. Ozur joined in immediately, as did his companion, who did not know the context of Ozur’s comment but joined his fellow Northman in revelry as a matter of course.

  “I hope these Northerners are as fierce to fight as they are ready to laugh,” Andrei said when the laughter ebbed in the room.

  “More so,” Alexander said.

  “Good,” Andrei said, and his gaze came back to Illarion again. “Do you advise, ghost, or do you lead?”

  Illarion let his smile fade. “I would lead men as readily as you would, sir,” he said.

  “Enough,” Alexander said, cutting his brother off before he could reply. “We have the same enemy. Hermann of Dorpat, the Prince-Bishop of Riga.”

  Nika cleared her throat noisily. “There is another,” she said.

  All eyes turned toward her, and she grimaced awkwardly at their attention. “The Livonians have their own man, and he is in charge of the army in the field.”

  “Who is this man?” Alexander said, his eyes narrowing. He did not ask the more obvious question of how she knew this information.

  “Kristaps of Fellin,” she said.

  Illarion gaped at her, and Alexander swiftly judged his reaction to be one of intimate knowledge. “Who is he?” the prince asked again, this time directing the question at Illarion.

  “He is a knight of the Livonian order,” Illarion said, still shocked by Nika’s news. “He attempted to defile the sacred places of Kiev last year. He is the First Sword of Fellin. Once he also claimed the title of Volquin’s Dragon.”

  Andrei glanced at Nika. “A very daunting name,” he said. “You fought him at Kiev?”

  “We did,” Nika said.

  “And why have you not told my brother this news before this meeting?” Andrei asked.

  “Because I did not know of it until shortly before this meeting,” Nika said.

  “Your advisors have their own spies?” Andrei asked, glaring at Alexander. “Does the Veche know?”

  “The Veche knows little and wants to know even less,” Alexander said dryly, attempting to defuse some of the tension in the room. Though, judging from the glance he gave Illarion, he was less than pleased to be castigated about the apparent secrecy of his advisors by his brother. “In fact,” he continued with a final shake of his head, “they do not yet know what I am about to tell you: the Teutonics have abandoned Pskov, but not before putting much of the city to the torch.”

  Everyone other than Illarion started talking at the same time, and the prince had to shout over the hubbub of voices to make himself heard. As the assembled council quieted down, the prince turned to Illarion. “Of all of my advisors, you seem the least surprised.”

  Illarion nodded, and he gestured at the map on the table before them. “He’s moving north, isn’t he? The fires in Pskov are just the start. He’ll burn and pillage as he marches.”

  “If the Teutonic order means to rule Rus after this is done, this is no way to earn the loyalty of the people,” Andrei spat.

  “They care nothing for that,” Alexander replied. “When we have been forced to exact tribute from the tribes north of Novgorod for the yearly fur trades, it has always been understood that our purpose was not to make them love us. A hand can be extended to offer love or to strike fear; a ruler must know when to use each if he means to hold his throne.”

  Andrei reddened slightly at his brother’s words, but managed to hold his tongue.

  “He wants to break their spirits,” Illarion said. “We are a land of scattered tribes and city-states more than we are a unified people. You just said as much yourself: when you exact tribute from the tribes of the north. You are a man of Novgorod first and foremost. Kristaps was part of the order that campaigned in the north ten years ago. He was Volquin’s Dragon. He’s wreaking havoc among the tribes, and the survivors will run to Novgorod. The city can’t support that many refugees, and the more there are, the more the Veche will resent them. They’ll lose control of the city.”

  “It is the same tactic the Mongols used in Kiev,” Nika pointed out.

  “He thinks I will come save the people,” Alexander mused. “The Veche will want me out of Novgorod—fewer mouths to feed—and he thinks my pride will be unable to resist these cries for help.”

  “What is Pskov but a wounded child, crying out for you to rescue it?” Illarion asked.

  Alexander’s face tightened at the thought. “I think it is as likely that bored warriors need plunder to remain loyal to their masters.”

  “That may be true as well,” Illarion said. “But Kristaps wants you out in the field. He wants to crush you, and by doing so, crush the spirit of Novgorod.”

  Andrei bristled at this. “The sons of Yaroslav will avenge their dead.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Illarion said. “But none of them is Alexander Nevsky.”

  “Careful with that tongue of yours, ghost,” Andrei ground out.

  “Would you go to Pskov in my stead?” Alexander asked, his voice hard.

  His brother sputtered for a few moments, growing red in the face again, but then he let out the air he had been drawing in, and his face softened. “No,” he said.

  Alexander sighed, and frowned at the map for several moments. “I am glad you are here, brother,” he said, lifting his gaze and offering Andrei a smile. “You and I will march together. I am sorry you will not have more time to rest here at Novgorod, but we should march immediately.” He looked at Ozur and Nika. “Send a runner to Novgorod. Inform the Veche of my intent to march. Tell them why. I’m sure they’ll hear from their own scouts soon anyway.” He put out a hand and stopped Illarion. “Go,” he said to the others. “I would speak with you a moment longer,” he said as the others bowed their heads and made to leave the tent.

  Nika lingered, staring intently at Illarion as if she wanted him to understand some subtlety that he had missed so far. He frowned at her, and she only shook her head slightly before she left.

  “Tell me about this man, Kristaps,” Alexander said when he and Illarion were alone in the tent.

  “When I first returned to Rus, after the death of my family at Volodymyr-Volynskyi, I went to Kiev,” Illarion explained. “We met a party of Livonians, who were led by a man named Kristaps. These knights wore the old sigil—the red cross and sword that the order called its own before the battle of Schaulen. They were in Kiev’s ruins, seeking to defile the Lavra where Saint Ilya lies buried. We stopped them, and Kristaps was the only one who escaped. Apparently he did not run far.”

  “What were the Livonians doing in Kiev?” Alexander asked.

  “That question has plagued me since that day, Kynaz,” Illarion said. “What were they seeking Kiev? Were they hunting relics or were they chasing something else?” He looked involuntarily at the map. Kiev was leagues south, now, and still the ruin it had always been. Secret missions, he thought. What if the Shield-Brethren were not the only ones?

  Alexander drummed his fingers idly upon the maps as he contemplated Illarion’s words. “There are other things you haven’t told me,” he said eventually.

  “Aye,” Illarion admitted.

  Alexander seemed to realize what his fingers were doing and he glanced down at them and then at the map beneath. “When I accepted you into my service, I did so knowing you had secrets. All men do.”

&
nbsp; “I…I do not mean to keep them,” Illarion admitted. “I do not understand many things that some would consider secrets, but if I cannot trust the veracity of what I know, am I serving you well by blurting out every oddity that I encounter?”

  “No,” Alexander laughed. “But let us concoct a secret of our own,” he continued, more soberly. “Nevsky must go to Pskov because that is what the people yearn to see. They want to see their hero rescuing them.”

  “You must consider that it is a trap,” Illarion said.

  “Of course it is,” Alexander replied. “But it is also the only territory in Rus that the Teutonics still hold. If I were to take that away from them, where would they go when they ran?”

  “Back to Dorpat,” Illarion said.

  “And that’s what the Veche wants to see,” Alexander said. “They want to see the invaders driven out of Rus.”

  “But if Kristaps isn’t in Pskov, what do you gain by going there?” Illarion asked. “We have no idea how many are dead or what the city defenses are like. We will be overwhelmed by the needs of the people of Pskov.”

  “Of course,” Alexander said.

  Illarion shook his head. “Then why are you going?”

  “Me? I never said I was going to go.”

  “You said Nevsky will go to Pskov.”

  “I did.”

  “But you are Nevksy.”

  Alexander raised his hands. “Nevsky is a hero. That is who the people want.”

  Illarion nodded, suddenly understanding the secret the prince wanted to share with him. “A hero,” he said simply.

  Alexander pointed to the map, indicating Pskov and then he let his finger drift. “And if a hero were to rescue a city that has been traumatized and beaten by an arrogant enemy who thinks his foe cannot strike back at him…” His finger came to a stop on a city beyond the borders of Rus.

  “Arrogance is the folly of many a man who strives to be more than he should be,” Illarion said.

  “Perhaps Nevsky might remind him of this hubris,” Alexander said, his finger tapping the name on the foreign city.

  Dorpat.

  CHAPTER 17:

  ON THE MARCH

  “I have some concerns about your plan,” Hermann of Dorpat said as he reined his horse beside Kristaps. The Prince-Bishop wore a heavy cloak, trimmed with white fur; beneath it, Kristaps could see the glint of maille. The familiar outline of a sword disturbed the trailing edge of the cloak.

  “So you’ve said,” the First Sword of Fellin replied, returning his gaze to the line of men marching out of Pskov. He wondered if the Prince-Bishop had ever drawn his sword in combat or if the maille had ever felt the bite of a blade.

  “Pskov was our foothold in the north. Giving it up is tantamount to fleeing.”

  Kristaps let his gaze roam over the city under discussion. He and the Prince-Bishop were observing the movement of the Teutonic army from a hillock less than a mile from the southern gate. Dawn had come less than an hour before, and the tendrils of smoke still rising from the smoldering fires were pale threads against the lightening sky. “Are we fleeing?” he asked the Prince-Bishop. When Hermann shook his head angrily, Kristaps shrugged. “Then why do you come to me and suggest that we are?”

  Hermann flushed, and his hands jerked at the reins of his horse. “I have heard that you intend to recall our men from Izborsk and Koporye as well.”

  Kristaps nodded. The Prince-Bishop’s consternation suddenly made more sense. Hermann of Dorpat had stood by when he had given the orders to ravage Pskov, and the Prince-Bishop had opened his coffers to provide the necessary coin to entice the mercenaries even to meet with them at the church. He had not said anything when Kristaps had sent word to the quartermasters that the army would march as soon as possible. Only now, when the men were on the move, did the Prince-Bishop have concerns that he needed to voice.

  Izborsk and Koporye.

  Most of the distain Kristaps had shown for Hermann’s efforts in the north was in regards to the Prince-Bishop’s lack of initiative in the last few years. When the Teutonics had first invaded the Ruthenian lands, they had done so with measureable success, taking and holding both Izborsk and Koporye. Conquering those cities had been victories that reminded Kristaps of Volquin’s strategic method of bringing down an enemy piecemeal. And the occupation of Pskov had been a fierce blow to Novgorod, but the Prince-Bishop had failed to take advantage of the impetus provided by these victories. He had wintered in Pskov, and once his men had stopped moving forward, it had been easy to stay put.

  But Rus would not give itself to the Teutonic crusaders simply because Pskov and a few other garrisons had been taken, and Rome wanted all of Novgorod. It was akin to being asked to capture an entire herd of wild horses and bringing only three stallions back.

  “What good are garrisons in those cities if we fail to best Nevsky in the field?” he asked the Prince-Bishop.

  Hermann scowled at Kristaps, offering no answer to the question posed to him. He jabbed the heels of his boots sharply against his horse’s barrel and left Kristaps to watch the Teutonic army march alone.

  The crux of the difference between the two men lay in the unanswered question. Hermann of Dorpat was a cautious man. His brother, Albert, had founded the city of Riga and built a cathedral there, earning the eternal gratitude of Rome. Hermann, who had been given his brother’s title when Albert had died, did not want to live within the shadow of his brother’s accomplishments, but Kristaps did not see how it was possible for Hermann to eclipse Albert. He simply did not have the same fire.

  And what of the young Novgorodian prince who had beaten a Swedish army at Neva, the upstart commander who had instantly become a hero of the people after that victory? Would a cautious man like Hermann of Dorpat have any chance against a man like that?

  A cautious man would wait for his enemy to give him an opportunity to attack, but there would be no such opportunity. Not unless it was created.

  Pskov was a wound, a bleeding injury that the people of Rus could not ignore. The boyars of Novgorod would be frightened and they would call upon Nevsky to protect them. Nevsky wouldn’t ignore them—not when they reached out to him like that—and he would show them, as well as the rest of Rus, that he was their one true champion.

  For an instant, staring at the sullen walls of Pskov, he was reminded of the walls of Petraathen, and he clenched his teeth at the intrusive memory. A stray gust of wind buffeted his horse, and the animal shook its head in protest, eager to be moving.

  Aye, he thought, tapping his heels lightly against the sides of his horse. He did not care for this land. It reminded him too often of the mountains around Petraathen, of the wild people who were scattered throughout the Carpathians and their pagan myths. It reminded him of Schaulen, and while he was loath to admit such a fear, he longed for the day when the memory of Schaulen did not haunt him.

  A second gust of wind buffeted Kristaps, and when he looked over his shoulder at Pskov, he almost fancied that the rising tendrils of smoke were twining about one another, forming the twisted branches of a tree. But when he blinked, the branches were gone, and there was nothing above Pskov but a grey haze of death and despair.

  Muttering a curse at the wind and the land alike, Kristaps turned his back to Pskov and rode after the Prince-Bishop. At Schaulen, he had been forced to run. In Kiev, he had been forced to run. Years ago, at Petraathen, he had run. I will run no more, he warned the demons that lurked in the dark corners of his heart. This time, it is you who will run from me.

  Their route was north and east of Pskov, a circuitous route to Novgorod, but one that allowed time for Nevsky to marshal a response to what he had done in Pskov. They also needed to gather the garrisons from Izborsk and Koporye, and one of the final messages Kristaps had received in Pskov before departing had mentioned the arrival of the boats belonging to the sons of Valdemaar. Danish marauders—long-standing villains in the eyes of the Ruthenians, but such enmity meant only that they were the perfect allie
s. His request for their assistance had been met with equal parts suspicion and wonder, more so when he had made it clear he cared little for any plunder the Danes might acquire during their campaign. Help me break Novgorod, he had written. I care naught for the rest.

  It was not his land, and when it was conquered, he would not be the one who would have to administer it. That was the dreadful responsibility of someone like Hermann, who, for clearly prideful reasons, wanted that yoke. The more the people were traumatized, beaten into a state of ready submission, the more readily they would cling to whatever order was given to them. He found such obsequiousness somewhat ironic. It was not as if their own boyars were any kinder as rulers. Kings and princes spent their entire reigns waging provincial wars over such slights as the theft of daughters or fish or furs. While in Pskov, he had learned that the Veche of Novgorod sent out an army every year against the heathen nomads who roamed the northern mountains, brutalizing them until they gave up their yearly tribute of furs. His Teutonic army was just another oppressor.

  The few villages they passed were already abandoned, the people fleeing for Novgorod, and he did not allow the army to tarry. They had a decent supply train, and there was no plunder worth taking in these ramshackle villages. It wasn’t that he felt pity for these desperate people; he simply had no interest in the distraction that would be caused by allowing the men time to pillage the empty homes. Let them think we are merciful, he had said with a laugh.

  Mid-afternoon, his scouts spotted a column of smoke among the trees and Kristaps took a company of knights to investigate. Hermann insisted on accompanying them, and while Kristaps could think of several reasons why he should have stayed with the main column, he said nothing as the Prince-Bishop and a small contingent of his bodyguard joined his riders.