The Mongoliad: Book Three

by Neal Stephenson

  As soon as he saw Alchiq stand and shoot an arrow, he did the same. He hesitated a split second, watching the flight of both arrows, trying to discern some meaning to the spatter of shadows behind the rocks. As he heard Alchiq move behind him, he shot three more arrows in quick succession.

  Alchiq slammed into the rock beside him, grunted from the impact. “They’re fools,” he hissed, leaning to his left and peering down at the valley floor. “Ride!” he screamed, startling Gansukh. “Get the Khagan away from here.” Muttering under his breath, he scooted around on his ass until he could peer over the top of their cover. He ducked back down almost immediately and Gansukh heard the wooden rattle of an arrow bouncing off the top of the rock. “The archer isn’t trying to hit the Khagan,” he said to Gansukh, jerking a thumb toward the valley. “He had his shot. Now he’s just slowing them down.”

  As Gansukh examined the chaos below, he saw a Darkhat horse take an arrow in the chest and stumble, throwing its rider. He counted bodies, and got the same number of horses as men. “There’s another group,” he said, divining the same strategy that Alchiq was seeing. “On horseback most likely.”

  Alchiq nodded. “He’s got a longer range than us, but it means nothing when your targets are all scrambling for cover. His first two arrows were his only real chance at assassinating the Khagan.” He gestured down at the scattered bodies. “This is sowing confusion. It is a tactic they do well. It suggests they are outnumbered. They want us to not think about how many of them there are, and where they are located. They want us running in blind fear.”

  “Back up the valley,” Gansukh said. “Right into an ambush.”

  Alchiq rolled over and peered out beyond the far edge of their cover. “Where are the Torguud guards?” he wondered. “How far back did we leave them?”

  As if in response, a booming echo rolled down the valley. “Chinese powder,” Alchiq spat angrily.

  Gansukh had recognized the sound too. “Munokhoi had one,” he said. “A hand cannon. He got it from the raiders who attacked our caravan shortly after we left Karakorum. He had it with him when...” He tried to remember where he had last seen it. There had been a satchel that the ex–Torguud captain had dropped...

  “It’s a signal,” Alchiq said. “Get the Khagan!” he shouted again, trying to catch the attention of the men below. “Now their real ambush will be sprung,” he snarled.

  Gansukh understood his frustration. They were trapped on the hillside, unable to aid the Khagan. An idea occurred to him and he tapped Alchiq on the shoulder. “Up,” he said. “If we can’t go down, let’s go up. Get above the archers.”

  Alchiq gave Gansukh a nasty smile. “Flush them out,” he said, nodding.

  An odd serenity came over Master Chucai as the archers on the hillside started killing the Khagan’s hunting party. His qi was not agitated by the sudden and violent death being visited upon the men around him; instead he felt a placid calmness descend upon him.

  Until he was turned as an arrow creased his jaw and punched through the tangle of his beard. He gasped as the world came rushing back: a tumult of sound making his ears ring, the rich scent of flesh blood, the texture of leather and horn under his hands as he grabbed his saddle and hauled himself onto his horse.

  Behind him, the shaman cowered on his pony, his hands over his ears. The tiny man babbled, a string of prayers and magical cantrips meant to protect him from flying demons. Chucai leaned over and shoved the shaman out of his saddle; he grabbed the reins and led the pony as he kicked his horse into motion.

  A Darkhat rider passed him, going in the opposite direction. The man loosed an arrow past his head, drew another from his quiver, and aimed without bothering to notice that he had nearly put an arrow into Chucai’s eye.

  Chucai understood the man’s focus, and he was glad that someone was fighting back. It would make getting the Khagan to safety easier.

  He swung around a cluster of bushes and spotted the Khagan lying on the ground next to two dying men. Both were begging the Khagan for mercy, and Ögedei was trying to back away from them while still maintaining as small a profile as possible against the ground.

  “Ögedei,” Chucai shouted. He shook the pony’s reins at the Khagan. “A steed, my Khan.”

  Ögedei looked around wildly at the sound of Chucai’s voice, and he slowly focused on the pair of horses. “You... you want me to ride that?” he sputtered.

  Chucai shook the reins at the addled Khagan. “Decide quickly,” he snapped. “Do you want to be the Khan who was too proud to ride a pony and who died miserably in the woods? Or...?”

  Another arrow punched through the brush, and silenced the cries of the gut-shot man. The other one, the man with the arrow through his face, shrieked and clawed at Ögedei’s boot, begging to be rescued.

  Ögedei scrambled to his feet and snatched the offered reins from Chucai’s hands. He clambered onto the pony, his legs nearly touching the ground, and hunching over the small animal’s neck he smacked it fiercely on the ears. It bolted, darting toward the other end of the valley, and Chucai spurred his own steed after the galloping pony.

  He had to guide the empire still. He had to make sure it was going the right direction.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  The Big Boss

  As Rutger fought his way through the crowd toward Ashiq Temür, he eyed the man’s cudgel warily. The simplest weapons were often times the most effective, and Rutger knew all too well that a solid blow from the big Mongol’s weapon would shatter bone and pulp his flesh. Maks’s crushed face was the only reminder he needed of the weapon’s power. As he broke through the mob, he saw that the cudgel was more than a shaped piece of hardwood. Beneath the blood spatter and gore clinging to it, he could see the glint of metal. Heavy and slow, he thought, I must be quick.

  He swung his sword, and Ashiq Temür saw him coming and raised his club to block Rutger’s attack. Their weapons clashed, and Rutger’s blade bit into the wood of the cudgel. The Mongol commander grinned, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth, as he twisted his arm down. Rutger couldn’t get his blade free in time, and his arms were yanked to his left. Ashiq Temür stepped closer, movement that wasn’t very smart if he was planning on hitting Rutger with his cudgel, but Rutger knew the big man had other plans in mind. He wanted to grapple.

  Rutger stepped in too. He let go of his sword with his left hand, made a fist, and drove forward with all his might. Unlike the Mongol, his hand was covered with steel plates, and his armored fist struck Ashiq Temür square in the nose. The Mongol’s head snapped back and a bright flower of blood burst across his face.

  Rutger wasn’t sure who screamed louder—he or the Mongol. Even with the protection of his gauntlets, something snapped inside his hand when he hit Ashiq Temür’s face.

  Rutger felt his sword come free of the cudgel, and he darted to Ashiq Temür’s left. He slid behind the Mongol’s back and raised his blade so that he could grip the steel with his damaged left hand. Even though his grip felt imperfect—one of his fingers was not cooperating as it should—he yanked the sword toward him, slamming the blade against his enemy’s throat. He twisted his hips violently.

  On a smaller man the technique would have slit the man’s throat and most likely snapped his neck, but Rutger felt the blade rasp off metal and leather. Ashiq Temür was wearing neck protection and all he had done was attach himself to the bigger man’s back like an enraged monkey.

  Ashiq Temür dropped his weight and rotated his hips, and Rutger tried to hang on as he was wrenched around like a rag doll. The big Mongol flexed his shoulders, broadening his back, and his left elbow snapped back, driving into the aged quartermaster’s gut.

  Rutger knew the elbow was coming. He released his grip on his blade, taking the Mongol’s strike against his chest. It knocked him back, and as Ashiq Temür whirled around, Rutger turned the stagger into a roll and the roll into a retreat. The ground shook as the cudgel hammered into the spot where he had been standing a moment earlier.
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  His spine popping, Rutger came up in a crouch. His chest was tight—not from the Mongol’s blow, but from his overworked lungs—and his left hand burned as if he had been squeezing hot coals. He stayed low, his sword resting on the ground in front of him as he struggled to catch his breath.

  Ashiq Temür towered over Rutger as he raised his massive cudgel for another ground-shaking blow. His mouth yawned open, braying a wordless battle cry, and the skull-shattering club arced down, eclipsing the late afternoon sun.

  No, the thought flashed through Rutger’s head, I will not die today.

  He was fighting with Andreas’s longsword. He would not let the weapon be lost on the battlefield. He would not let Andreas who had fallen before, or Maks or any of the other Shield-Brethren who had fallen today, go unremembered. He would not falter.

  Rutger surged to his right, sweeping Andreas’s longsword up into the path of Ashiq Temür’s descending swing. He felt the blade strike flesh, jarring his hands. Shards of pain blasted through his left wrist and up his arm. The cudgel hit the ground and bounced to his left. Ashiq Temür stared, shock and surprise crumbling the corners of his wide-open mouth. Rutger wasted no time, and snapped his sword up, the tip of his blade slicing just above the leather collar wrapped around Ashiq Temür’s neck. The Mongol commander groaned, a jet of dark blood spurting from his throat, and when he raised his arms to try and stop the flow his eyes widened.

  Rutger’s first cut had severed both of his arms, just above the wrist.

  Ashiq Temür collapsed, sprawling on ground slippery with his blood. He died, open eyes staring at his severed hands, still clutching the heavy club.

  Rutger turned away from the dead man, shutting him out of his mind. Exulting in the death of an enemy was both a waste of precious time and beneath the dignity of the Shield-Brethren. Every combatant carried with him the power of life and death; every breath was a blessing from the Virgin, and to be the one who continued to draw breath after battle was a testament to skill and training.

  He couldn’t tell which side was winning; the battle was still balanced on a knife’s edge. Shield-Brethren and Livonian fought side by side against Mongol warriors. As one clump of combatants splintered apart, another group clashed. All the men fought with the same determination, the same zeal, trying to break the morale of their nemeses. The side that lost its momentum first would lose the field.

  “Deus Vult!” The cry carried over the din of battle like a horn resonating out of a mountainous canyon. The cry came from many throats, shouting in perfect unison, and while the echoes of the cry were still reverberating, the ground started to shake with the thunderous approach of a mounted host.

  His arm aching, Rutger raised Andreas’s sword over his head. “Alalazu!” he cried, though his voice was so ragged that he doubted anyone heard him.

  More horses came, seemingly everywhere at once, bristling with spears and swords and flails. The Mongols wavered, trembling like a field of reeds in the path of an angry wind, and then, as their companions around them started dying, they broke and ran.

  The Templars and the Hospitallers had come.

  With a quick flick of his eyes, Zug checked on Kim’s reaction to Onghwe’s revelation. The Flower Knight was staring at the dissolute Khan with an odd expression on his face. What was Kim thinking? Zug wondered. As if he had heard Zug’s question, Kim turned and looked at him. The Flower Knight shrugged slightly, tossed his sword aside, and picked up one of the guards’ discarded spears.

  The tent was silent but for the whimpering of the whore, huddled on the platform. Zug and Kim moved noiselessly across the rugs, slowly closing the distance to their nemesis. The young Rose Knight hung back, clearly intending to guard the entrance against any other guards who might try to rescue the Khan, and Zug quickly put the boy out of his mind.

  Onghwe’s smile remained undiminished, and his hooded tiger gaze flickered back and forth between the two men.

  Kim struck first. Without any warning, the Flower Knight was no longer creeping stealthily forward but was flying through the air, the tip of his spear lancing out at the Khan.

  Onghwe darted to the side, moving with the speed of a biting snake. He seized the whore by the hair, and with singular strength, hurled her in front of him. She tumbled across the bed, arms flailing.

  Kim tried to abort his strike, his features rearranging themselves into an expression of horrified shock, but the Khan’s aim was too true. Kim’s spear gored the woman through the chest, the point protruding hideously out her back.

  In a gruesome second, the Khan had neutralized Kim’s attack and rendered him weaponless. The Flower Knight’s sword lay several paces behind him. Kim dropped the spear and drew back as the Khan advanced on him, his sword flashing in quick arcs.

  Zug released the kiai—the heavenly shout. His strike came up from the floor, not as strong as the overhead strike but still quick enough. Still strong enough to split the dissolute Khan from groin to neck. The Khan would have to choose between killing Kim and dying, or evading his strike and allowing the Flower Knight to escape.

  The Khan had seen Zug fight in the arena enough times to know that attempting to block a naginata strike with a sword was tantamount to inviting death, and he opted for evasion, leaping toward Zug with astonishing speed.

  Zug anticipated Onghwe’s approach. Every sword fighter, when facing off against opponents with longer weapons, strove to get inside, to diminish the effectiveness of the long weapon. Equally, every pole-arm fighter learned techniques to keep the sword fighters at bay. Zug pulled his naginata back, slashing in the opposite direction as he closed the line.

  Onghwe, having avoiding the first attack by moving to Zug’s right and toward him, kept coming. He reversed his blade, catching Zug’s downward slice against the flat of his sword. A dangerous parry, but as Zug had not been able to gather full momentum, the stroke only pushed the Khan’s blade against his body—the sword blade shielding the Khan from the naginata’s cutting edge.

  Onghwe’s feet pounded against the floor as he rushed Zug, striking him in the middle of the forehead with the pommel of his sword.

  Zug’s world exploded into a flurry of vibrant colors. He tried to get an arm up to block another punishing blow as he reeled back, and Onghwe smashed him on the right shoulder. He stumbled against a divan, and off balance and unable to see through a rain of tears he fell, trying to turn his stumble into a roll or flip or anything that would take him away from the Khan’s sword.

  He tumbled clumsily off the other side of the divan, landing awkwardly on his left shoulder. Ignoring the pain racing up and down his arm, Zug scrambled to his feet, dragging his naginata with him.

  The Khan’s sword struck the haft of his weapon just below his right hand and sheared through the thick wood. Onghwe let out a tiny grunt as the tip of his sword hit the carpet beside Zug. He froze for an instant, his eyes glittering as he examined Zug’s position—on his knees, his arms over his head, the naginata blade a long ways off. His sword was much closer to Zug’s undefended right side; he could hit Zug sooner than Zug could get the naginata blade around.

  Zug loosened his grip, letting the haft of the naginata move loosely in his right hand, and he jerked his left hand toward his right, thrusting the butt of his weapon. Onghwe jerked his head back, and Zug only managed to land a glancing blow on the dissolute Khan’s cheek.

  Onghwe whipped his sword around, a wild one-handed swing that Zug had no choice but to throw himself forward in order to avoid. He felt the sword whip over his head, and before Onghwe could swing on him again, he scrambled away, swinging the naginata around to make the Khan cautious in his approach.

  But Onghwe wasn’t pressing the attack. During their exchange, Kim had procured another spear and now returned to the fray. The Flower Knight thrust at Khan, and Onghwe twisted himself around, momentarily putting his back to Zug. He parried, spinning his blade around Kim’s weapon and pushing it wide. He darted forward, attempting to use the same pommel
smash he had used on Zug.

  Kim wasn’t about to let Onghwe get that close. He wiggled his spear, slipping it under the Khan’s elbow to raise Onghwe’s arm. He kicked, smashing his heel against the side of Onghwe’s knee. Onghwe roared with pain and retreated, cautiously testing his weight on his right leg.

  “Marvelous,” he chortled as he put some distance between the two fighters. His face was flushed, glowing with sweat, and a dark bruise was already forming on his right cheek. “I haven’t felt this alive in years.” He laughed, consumed in equal portion by feral madness and giddy euphoria.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Final Doubts

  Feronantus’s plan was simple: kill the bear, stake it out in gross parody of its rampant state, and wait for the Khagan to arrive. Rædwulf and Istvan would lie in ambush on the southern hillside, close to the rocky spur that split the main valley. The rest of the company would hide in the southern canyon until the Khagan’s party had scattered, and then they would ride into battle.

  The last half year of hard riding came down to this: a dead bear, an ambush, and one final charge.

  None of them expected to survive.

  They said good-bye to Yasper shortly after they broke camp, and then a half hour later, to Rædwulf and Istvan. With three horses in tow, Feronantus led the party into the southern forest and stopped when he reached an open glade. They tethered the horses in a line and gave them enough rope to forage among the tall grasses.

  As Feronantus, Percival, and Eleázar checked and adjusted their gear—Eleázar grousing noisily about having to fight from horseback where his enormous sword would be useless—Vera took Raphael by the hand and led him into the trees. They had all lost weight during the hard trek across the steppe, and Vera’s beauty had become even more stark and austere. Her hair was longer, and she had taken to braiding it in the Northern style. The sun and wind had darkened her skin; it was not as dark as Raphael’s, but she was not the pale ghost of a woman he had met months ago. Only her eyes remained unchanged—hard and unyielding, the same color as her maille.