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 staggered 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.
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…