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 Tyrshammar. 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.
Raphael felt another arrow stick in his maille, high enough on his back that he knew Alchiq was aiming for his head, and he stopped worrying about Feronantus. The old man could take care of himself. He darted to his right, spinning wildly on the ice as he fumbled for his mace in its sling at his waist. Alchiq’s horse was nearly upon them, and he didn’t even bother gripping the mace solidly. He simply pulled it out of its sling and threw it at the horse’s head. The heavy missile struck the horse’s withers and the beast stumbled once.
It was enough.
The horse lost its footing on the ice and went down, throwing off Alchiq’s aim. The Mongol tumbled out of the saddle, and both Vera and Raphael charged at the sprawling man, drawing their swords as they ran across the ice.
Alchiq came up to one knee with his bow, an arrow still nocked. Raphael tried to skid to a stop and change direction, but all he managed to do was slide across the ice, straight at Alchiq. With a wicked grin, the Mongol loosed the arrow and Raphael felt a heavy punch in the stomach. He was knocked off balance and as he fell onto his side, he saw Vera descend upon the crouched Mongol, her sword flashing.
He swept his bow up, intercepting her downward stroke. The bow split in his hands, fouling her strike, and he rolled forward, letting go of the mess his bow had become. Vera’s sword tangled in the horn, wood, and sinew, and as she tried to clear her weapon, Alchiq was on his feet, slashing at her with his curved sword.
She twisted and would have parried his sword had her feet not slid out from beneath her. Her swing went wide, and Raphael heard the grating sound of metal against metal as Alchiq’s sword slid across her mailled hip.
He struggled to get up, pulling at the arrow sticking out of his maille. A stab of pain lanced up from his belly, and he stared down at the arrow. It had penetrated his maille. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the shaft with both hands and snapped it off, much like Feronantus had done with the arrow in his neck. The pain increased for a moment as he broke the shaft, but it subsided quickly, which told him the wound was not deep.
Vera was still off balance and Alchiq shoved her, knocking her off her feet. He didn’t bother chasing her down, and after sparing a quick glance at Raphael, he spun on the ice and went for Feronantus.
Wielding the Spirit Banner like a quarterstaff, Feronantus caught Alchiq under the chin with the end, lifting the Mongol clear off the ice and sending him flying. Raphael heard the sharp click of Alchiq’s teeth slamming together, and there was blood on the Mongol’s mouth when he landed on the ice.
Raphael scrambled toward him, and Alchiq squirmed away like a spider as Raphael slammed his sword down, throwing up a spray of icy shards. Alchiq spun on his ass, lunging with his sword at Raphael’s ankles, and Raphael knocked his sword away. He sliced down again, and this time he connected with Alchiq’s thigh.
Alchiq howled, and bright blood spurted across the ice. The Mongol sat up, swinging his sword at Raphael’s nearby arm. Raphael tried to pull his sword back, but it stuck—either in the ice or Alchiq’s leg, he couldn’t be sure—and so he let go of his weapon entirely to avoid being hit.
Vera appeared at his side, and she kicked Alchiq’s arm back as he tried to swing at her. She swept her sword up in a vicious stroke, catching him just below the elbow. Alchiq screamed again, and there was even more blood on the ice as well as a hand still clutching a curved sword. Vera lifted her foot and stomped down heavily, twice, and Alchiq stopped screaming.
Feronantus rested against the Spirit Banner and when the screaming stopped, he roused himself from the stupor that had been stealing over him. In the distance, he could still hear the sound of the battle and, peering across the expanse of ice that separated him from the general melee, he gauged the state of the battle.
The Livonians were still on the ice, but they were beginning to push back toward the shore again. It is time, he thought, and wearily pushed himself upright.
He didn’t know what words he was supposed to say or if he should compose his mind in any special manner, and so he merely thought of Maria. He recalled walking with her through the forest in England, before he had taken the course of life that would bring him to this frozen lake and this moment, and the memory comforted him.
He lifted the Banner up to his knees and slammed it down against the ice. Nothing happened, and so he did it again, struggling to clear his mind of any confusion, of any uncertainly that this was not the right choice. He had seen this lake. He knew there was power in the Spirit Banner. He had felt it time and again since he had first picked it up in the Mongolian forest. The stick had been cold to his touch since Istvan’s death and the fiery explosion in the depression, but he knew there was still magic in the staff.
There had to be, otherwise his life had been spent striving for something that did not exist. It was faith, pure and simple, that the world was stranger than any of them suspected.
He had seen the tree. He knew that it had flourished once. Just as he knew the staff had been cut from the tree, carried over the generations by men who had benefited from the radiant power in it. They may not have understood its power, and he didn’t claim to understand it either, but he believed in it.
The staff slammed into the ice again, and still nothing happened.
He leaned against it, his hands shaking. He felt tears starting at the corners of his eyes, and at the back of his mind a tiny worm of doubt started to wiggle. Had he been wrong? Had he imagined everything?
A drop of blood splashed on the ice beside the butt of the Spirit Banner. He stared at it, wondering where it had come from, and then he remembered being hit by the Mongol arrow. He touched at the piece of broken wood sticking out of his neck and examined the blood on his fingers. Frowning, he put aside the distraction of the wound and gripped the Spirit Banner again.
The wood moved in his hand.
Of course, he thought. Blood requires blood.
He let go of the Spirit Banner, which remained upright on the ice, and using one hand as a brace, he gripped the slippery shard of wood in his neck.
“Feronantus!”
He paused. Raphael and Vera were standing nearby, and Raphael was holding out his hands, shaking his head. “Leave it,” Raphael said. “I’ll get it later. You’ll just bleed more.”
“I know,” Feronantus said. “It has to be done. The old must give way to the new.”
“Stop,” Raphael shouted as Feronantus pulled heavily, tearing the broken arrow out of his body. Vera grabbed Raphael, holding him back.
Raphael was right. Blood spattered onto the ice and blood ran down his maille, soaking his gambeson underneath. His vision darkened and he grabbed the Spirit Banner for support.
The ice rolled beneath his feet.
He raised his head and looked at Raphael. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If the order is to survive, you must know what is at stake. It is not merely the people of the world, but the world itself. Blood and branch, Raphael, we must defend it all.” He lifted the Spirit Banner—the last branch of the old tree—and slammed it once more against the ice.
Someone screamed. He wasn’t sure who. It might have been him. The ice buckled beneath the staff, twisting and shivering. He clutched the staff with all his might, his hands slippery with blood, and he slammed it down one last time.
He saw, stretching out from the point where the tip of the staff touched the ice, a series of twisting roots. They shot away from him, cracking and shattering the ice in an explosion of white light. Closing his eyes, he still saw the roots, burned forever into his memory.
She was there, standing beside him, coaxing him to let go of the blood-slick staff, whispering to him that it was time to let go. Her wings were made from thousands of iridescent feathers. When he looked at her face, he wept, knowing he had done the right thing even though it was going to bring pain to those he loved.