When they passed around the foot of the hill, they felt the wind on their faces, and while its touch was both light and refreshing, its breath was filled with an unwholesome stink. At first Cnan thought it was the sort of putrescence that was not uncommon in fetid swampland, but the river flowed too freely to allow decaying matter to build up. Glancing at the others, she saw they too were affected by the smell, but unlike her, they appeared more familiar with it.
“Corpse rot,” Yasper explained. He rooted around in one of his many satchels until he found a small vial. Carefully unstopping it, he poured a small dollop of the thick liquid onto two fingers, and then he pressed the fingers to both nostrils. Keeping his mouth closed, he inhaled deeply, the sides of his nose indenting. “Ah,” he sighed. When he lowered his fingers, he appeared to be no longer in distress from the lingering smell that permeated the air. With a grin, he offered the vial to Cnan.
She stared at him as if he had been taken with a pox fever, and when he waggled the vial at her, she finally took it from his outstretched hand. Somewhat dubiously, she poured a tiny bead onto one of her fingers and sniffed at it cautiously. The smell of mint was overpowering and she jerked her head back in surprise. “What is this?” she asked.
“A tincture of mint oil,” he smiled. “My own recipe.” He waved his hand about his face as if he were directing more of the revolting stench toward his nostrils.
She put a bead on another finger and, somewhat clumsily, aped his method of applying the oil to her nose. Her eyes watered as she inhaled and the mint vapors speared deep into her head, like tiny icicles. But, she had to admit, it was a pleasant sensation in its own way, and much preferable to the stink of decaying flesh.
R?dwulf chuckled at her expression as he reached over with a long arm and plucked the vial from her fingers. Unlike Yasper, he put drops of the oil in the wide webbing between his thumb and index finger and shoved his hand against his face to smother his nostrils completely.
He passed the vial to Feronantus, who partook before offering it to Istvan. The Hungarian glowered and busied himself with stroking his mustache as if the idea of mint in his beard were too distasteful to contemplate. Finn only sniffed at the vial before shrugging and returning it to Yasper. As if he wasn’t quite sure what all the fuss was about or why one would want to mask one’s ability to smell.
A little lightheaded from the mint oil, Cnan focused on the tiny shantytown nestled between the hill and the river. Several wooden docks sprawled along the water’s edge, and boats were moored to its length by any available means. Makeshift hovels and stalls were arranged in no clear order, seemingly erected wherever two pieces of wood could be leaned together to make the semblance of a wall. The tiny hamlet along the river appeared haphazard and carefree, as if the residents built and crafted what they needed from their surroundings without much worry about permanence or protection from marauders. An attitude, she realized, that wasn’t entirely unexpected in the wake of what the residents had survived. What else could the Mongols do that they had not already done? Killing them might even be a blessing.
Without intending to, Cnan fell into a despondency of memory, and her head filled with the scents and sounds of the burning village where, so long ago, she had lost everything. Somewhat dazed, she swayed in her saddle and would have fallen off her horse had someone not placed a hand on her arm. She turned her head, opening her eyes, and flinched when she saw Yasper’s concerned expression.
Mistaking her reaction, Yasper let go. “Breathe through your mouth,” he said gently. “The scent can be too strong at first. Breathe slowly—not through your nose—until the dizziness passes.” He demonstrated.
“I’m fine,” she said, more curtly than she had intended, and then, “I am sorry, Yasper. You are only trying to help, and I have spoken rudely.”
“It is of no consequence,” he grinned. “These are rude times, and the only true incivility is that which is not recognized as such.”
“Speaking of which…” R?dwulf interrupted, drawing their attention toward a trio of scruffy natives who were approaching their party. To say the three men were dressed would be to call the scraps of cloth and twine and bits of fur that partially covered their gaunt bodies
“Cnan,” Feronantus called, “do you ken his words?”
She let her horse wander closer, her head cocked to the side as she tried to follow the man’s discourse. There was a repetition to his cadence that made it a little easier for her to pick out words she knew. “He’s saying the same thing over and over,” she reported. “Something about
One of the other two men shrieked and fell to his knees, groveling in the dirt. The spokesperson’s mouth hung open, but words no longer spilled from his blubbering lips.
“Well now,” Yasper opined as he joined Feronantus and Cnan, “that is a mighty invocation. Mayhap you could teach it to the rest of us…”
“I just asked him if he understood what I was saying,” Cnan pointed out.
“In the Mongolian tongue,” Feronantus reckoned. When Cnan nodded, he squinted at the shantytown, looking for movement among the hovels and detritus. “They’re terrified of us,” he said. “But we are clearly not Mongols…”
Off to their right, Istvan snorted noisily, and the attention of the three men darted to the Hungarian. His scowling visage only engendered more fear, and the kneeling one tried to press himself even lower against the ground.
“Finn,” Feronantus called, not taking his eyes off the shantytown. “We are not alone, are we?”
“Aye,” the hunter responded.
Cnan looked around for Finn. He was crouched a ways off, examining the track of the road they were on.
“Horses,” he said, pointing at the dirt. “Shod, like ours. Less than a day ago.”
“The red cross and sword. I thought the Livonians were no more…” was Roger’s response upon recognizing the sigil on the dead knight.
“Hell could not hold them,” Raphael suggested.
“Or simply found their company tedious,” Roger scoffed.
“Whatever their reason for straying into Rus,” Illarion said, “it is gratifying to see that one, at least, found the fate he deserved.”
“Which leads to the question, are there others?” Raphael said. “For this one is comparatively fresh, and the Shield-Maidens—if my guess is correct as to who yonder women are—seem to be expecting more of them.”
The question was an important one and caused all four men to take their eyes from the red cross and sword for the first time since they had seen it. Instinctively they formed up in a loose circle, facing outward, scanning the ruins around them and the jumbled slope below for any signs that they might have been followed. Hands strayed to sword hilts and ax handles. But they saw nothing untoward.
“Brother Raphael speaks correctly,” Percival said, “when he says that we must learn—and soon—whether there are other Livonians nearby. But there are only four pairs of eyes among us. Those eyes are peering through burnt vines and rubble piles over a new and unfamiliar landscape. Behind us, many more eyes, used to this place, scan the city from a better vantage point, and so the quickest way for us to learn the answer is simply to approach the gates, state our business, and ask the Shield-Maidens to share what they know.”
“Good luck with that,” Roger muttered.
“I shall go alone,” said Percival. This was an ultimatum, not a suggestion. Again that light seemed to play about his face. Raphael wished it would stop; it was most unsettling. Perhaps it came from a withdrawal of blood from the knight’s already pale skin.
Percival removed his sword and scabbard and handed them to Roger, then turned about and began walking directly toward the gates that barred their passage through the inmost and highest of all the priory’s walls.
The Shield-Maidens on the battlements above were divided in their response. Nearly all of them were speaking in the local tongue, and so Raphael could not make out what they were saying, but half were merely derisive, while the rest seemed nearly out of their minds with rage. As Percival strode the last hundred paces to the gate, the surrounding rubble heaps suddenly came alive, like a nest of ants disturbed by the blade of a plow, as ordinary persons—mostly wretched sorts, unarmed, not so much clothed as bandaged in improvised swaddlings of
