The Mongoliad: Book Two tfs-2

by Mark Teppo

  Rutger slapped a palm on the wooden bench. “You took this decision upon yourself without consulting me, without asking my permission. Are you an undisciplined mercenary who cannot be trusted to follow his commander’s orders? I had not thought to give much credence to the…stories I have heard about your insolence at Petraathen, but I fear I may have endangered all of us by refusing to believe these malicious-”

  “Sir,” Andreas interrupted. “I…I beg your pardon, Brother Rutger. I speak out of turn, and in doing so perhaps I do give credence to this fancy that my company was so intolerable that I was no longer welcome at Petraathen, but…” He stood tall and proud as he pulled back the right sleeve of his robe to reveal the burned sigil on his forearm. “I passed the Trial of the Shield, I took the Vow, and I earned my sword. I have given myself-body, mind, and soul-to the Virgin. If you wish to doubt my devotion to my oath or my brothers, you had best do so with steel in hand, because that is how I will answer such an accusation.”

  Rutger raised a hand in a gesture of submission. “Lower your guard, Andreas. I do not attack your obedience to our ideals or your zeal in executing them. Your valor in battle preceded you, and we welcomed the news of your imminent arrival with much joy. Our company is made finer by your presence; do not seek subterfuge in my words on that matter. However, this chapter house was born out of a desperate and unusual necessity. We have not been brothers-in-arms long enough to think as one unit, and until that time, it is all the more imperative that we strive to maintain discipline. There is no doubt in my mind that you are the most astute battlefield strategist we have, but for the sake of our company, I cannot be distracted by wondering if you are following my orders.”

  Andreas relaxed slightly, and he stared at the floor. He started to reply but then shook his head and remained silent. No answer was necessary. He had expected such a reminder, and had steeled himself for it, but when it came, he found he had no stomach to counter it. Doing so would strengthen Rutger’s concern that he was brash and unfit to lead the others. It would be better to show some humility, to accept the charge as given, and to move on to the larger issue at stake. Pick your battles, he had reminded the Livonian Heermeister, and it was an excellent platitude for him to remember as well.

  “Feronantus’s success depends on secrecy,” Rutger said, his tone softening, “and it does us no good to be under extra scrutiny by old rivals or to engage in a drawn-out pissing contest with them. What does that gain us?”

  “Respect,” Andreas replied after a moment.

  “Is it part of our ideals that we seek that from other orders?”

  “No. But I did not do it to earn their respect.”

  “Whose, then?”

  “Our brothers.”

  Rutger sighed and ran a hand across his short gray hair. Andreas leaped forward to press his point. “They may not have taken up the shield, but our trainees are able. Eilif reacted swiftly when I was faced with two targets. If he had not been there, I would have had to hurt one in order to best them. I told them I was going to engage the Livonians, and they were not to be drawn into the fight unless they sensed my situation was dire. I trusted them to guard me, and they did.” A big smile broke across his face. “I would wager any one of them could handle at least two Livonians on their own. They’re not children anymore.

  “And even if the Livonian Heermeister suspects we are not at full strength, he cannot be sure; however, wherever he chooses to engage us, his losses will be great. He will be cautious because he has to be; with the Mongols about, he will have to conserve his own strength. He’s not going to be thinking about moving against us; he’s going to be wondering how many men he will have to take with him to the alehouse whenever he gets thirsty. When he lays down at night, sleep will elude him because he will be worried that his compound is not secure. These are not baseless fears, Rutger, because our men could accomplish any such assault, if there was need.”

  “I remind you,” Rutger retorted, “that there is no such need. Our original purpose in coming here was twofold. First, we had to find a way to stop the Mongol hordes from sweeping over all the land from here to the western sea. A task that has already been undertaken by Feronantus and his team.” He frowned. “The second half of our duty was to hold the line here and keep our enemies focused on the Circus.”

  “And how are we doing that by hiding in a ruined church in the woods?” Andreas asked. “We sent one man to the arena, and when he won, the Khan stole him. What has our response been to that insult? We have done nothing. What would Haakon-if he is still alive-think of us? Have we abandoned our brother?”

  “No,” Rutger growled.

  “Then how are we to get him back? We don’t even know where he is. Or if he is even still alive.” Andreas sighed. “We are too cautious. Yes, Feronantus took many great warriors with him, but to think of our strength as lessened because they are not here is to think of ourselves as too weak to defend our own honor. Rescuing Haakon, holding this line, showing the Livonians that it is not in their interest to prick us just to see if we respond-these are things that we can do, that we have to do.”

  Andreas searched the graying quartermaster’s face for some hint as to his disposition. He feared he had been overzealous with his words, but such words needed to be given voice. Like Rutger, he had heard stories as well, of a time when Rutger had not been this reticent, when the older man had been a lion and not a caged cub. Speaking with such fiery rhetoric was a gamble, but he saw a glimmer in Rutger’s expression that suggested his efforts were not in vain. There was still anger in his eyes, but there was also a hint of spurned pride. That’s right, brother, Andreas thought, remember who we are. Our fortunes are writ in steel and sinew, not skulking in shadows and waiting for the end.

  “You have something more on your mind,” Rutger said after a long silence.

  Andreas nodded. “The Mongols grow bored without the fights, as that is the sole reason they had tarried here and built their arena. Many have left, but the host that remains is still too numerous for us to fight alone. While I did not make contact with the Flower Knight while I was in the village, I think I know how to reach him and, in the process of doing so, how to draw the Mongols out again.”

  He could feel the excitement building as he talked, the thought of active resistance over passive waiting causing his soul to uncoil its tensed strength. “There is a place called First Field. It is where Haakon earned the right to fight in the arena, and since the Mongols closed the arena, there has been no impetus to stage qualifying fights. We should change that; we should go to this field and challenge all comers. We should raise our standard there and say, ‘We have come to prove ourselves, and we will do so here until the Mongol Khan deigns to open the gates to the arena again.’ Eventually, he will take notice; perhaps he will even send out one of his champions.”

  Rutger stared at him intently. “And you think the champion they will send out will be the Flower Knight?” When Andreas nodded, the older man grunted. “There is a great deal of risk in your venture, and I do not believe there is much chance of success. We know nothing about how many champions the Khan has, or if he even cares anymore of what goes on outside his compound.” His words were defeatist and cynical, but his tone was much lighter-the voice of a man trying halfheartedly to talk himself out of something his head knew to be foolish, but his gut told him was true.

  “Low or not, it is the best option we have,” Andreas said. “The Mongol compound is well guarded, and we know too little about its layout and its guards to risk sending men over its walls. We would be better served by earning the trust of a man who resides inside.”

  Here Andreas paused, aware of the weight of their situation, of the tenuous balance of it. The edge of the blade. “It is also our best chance at restarting the Circus,” he said. “We must pull the Khan’s eyes toward some affair more entertaining than whatever it is he’s doing in his tent, sealed away from the rest of this place.”

  He felt his own smile t
urn mirthless, reminded once more of the fate that awaited them all. “If we entertain this Khan, then we acquire precious time-not only for our brothers on their dangerous mission but for our own lives as well. We may not yet be sure what we’re going to do with that time, but every moment that we put off the end of this game is a moment we can use to plan and prepare. I would rather face the dark prepared than stand ignorant, caught off guard like some novice stableboy. Ours is the righteous fight, Rutger, the burden of defending the weak and the innocent. We don’t hide ourselves from the night; we drive it back. It is our duty to stand tall and herald the rising dawn.”

  Rutger was silent, but his eyes were bright, moving jerkily back and forth as if he had just been shaken from a long sleep. “You’re prodding a dragon to keep the lions at bay,” he sighed. His sword hand flexed, motions that were doubtless painful, but so ingrained they could not be stopped. Once taken up, and even after it was released, the sword never truly left a knight’s hand; even in his dotage, he would remember its weight, and the vows and obligations that came with it.

  “In the end, either will devour us,” Andreas said. “Wouldn’t you rather choose the manner of your death?”

  Rutger laughed. “God and the Virgin must love you, boy, to give you such words to stir this old heart.”

  Watching Rutger’s hand open and close and seeing the flicker of pain in the back of his eyes that no training or will could completely hide, Andreas knew that the quartermaster spoke the truth. The Virgin did love him, and he, in turn, wanted to share that love with Rutger. Let us all die as we were meant to, he prayed, on a battlefield of our choosing, with a sword in our hands.

  15

  Tunder Magic

  Ferenc burrowed into the hay, pulling the old blanket over his body. First the sun and then the moon had faded, and the temperature in the squalid barn was cool. He had fallen into a stupor at once, indifferent to the heat and drifting dust; ironically, it was the quiet and the comfort of early morning that finally woke him.

  When he’d first come to consciousness, he’d been terrified, disoriented; then in a dizzying flash, he remembered where he was and how he’d gotten here. Or he almost remembered it. Had he abandoned Father Rodrigo? After that horrible, endless journey, after the holy man’s feverish dreams and gibberish, had he stood by him through all of it, just to desert him in the end?

  He had not deserted the priest. He could not have. He, Ferenc of Buda, son of Mareska, would not do such a thing. Someone on his father’s side might, perhaps, but even then, it took many years of constant moral degradation before one was capable of treachery. They were so strict, his people, so diligent in teaching their youth how things must be; it took years to outgrow the fear of disobedience. Only men of his grandfather’s age had achieved such indifference to conformity and duty that they could ever abandon someone they were honor bound to assist.

  He hadn’t deserted Father Rodrigo, and having reminded himself of this fact, he allowed himself to relax. He had only listened to that bizarre girl. During that moment of utter chaos in the crowded, roiling marketplace, she had appeared on the back of his horse-awkwardly attaching herself to him like a leech. She had never ridden a horse before-that much was clear by the way she clung to him. And she had shouted in his ear, directing him after the running soldier.

  His hands crept to the satchel still attached to his belt, exploring the rough outlines of objects within until he found the ring. After the girl had wrested it from the clamped fingers of the downed soldier, she’d given it to him.

  Who was she? Did she understand the meaning of the ring? It had caused quite an uproar, and Ferenc still did not know why.

  He lay listening to the horses in the stalls below: the steady crunch of the hay between strong teeth, the noisy exhalations, the tails whisking against the warped wood of the stalls, the occasional nickering to one another. The sounds made him feel safe; they were the closest things he had to memories of home.

  Ferenc rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Sunlight bled through a narrow window set high in the wall of the loft. He slid his hand through the dry hay until the tips of his fingers were lit by golden light. Despite the long sleep, he was worn out-the aches in his back and legs reminding him just how tired he was-and it was fine to lie here for a little while. Just a little while.

  Especially since he had no idea what to do next. Just thinking about it was almost more exhausting than the actual chase had been yesterday.

  His eyelids fluttered, and his breathing eased as he sank deeper into the hay. In a few hours, the light would fall directly on his face from the hatch used to let down hay. He’d wake then. He was sure of it. A few more hours, he thought drowsily. His hand jerked up, waving at an imaginary bug, and then his arm relaxed again, flopping against the hay. His head slid to the side, his breathing slow and regular.

  Then he heard a sound that was not the horses, and he sat up abruptly, hand reaching for his knife. Someone was in the hayloft.

  Right beside him.

  “Hey!” he shouted and tried to get to his feet, the knife held out defensively before him. How could he, a hunter, allow someone to get that close to him?

  “Shshshsh!” The whisper was distinctly feminine in tone. He huffed in relief and lowered the knife a little. It was the girl. In the morning light, he recognized her pale skin and narrow, bony shoulders.

  “Ferenc,” she said, pointing to him, as if it were a code word.

  “Ocyrhoe,” he said, almost apologetically, but still wary, nodding toward her and lowering the knife. But he did not sheathe it.

  They had only gotten as far as each other’s name in being able to communicate with each other. When she began to jabber, gesticulating with quick, exaggerated movements, he had to shake his head to remind her that he had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Father Rodrigo?” he interrupted, trying to slow down the torrent of words coming out of her mouth. “Rodrigo?”

  She cocked her head like a dog hearing a strange sound, and frowned.

  He repeated the priest’s name once more and then pointed to himself. “Ferenc.” Then to her, “Ocyrhoe.” Then, feeling apologetic for the caricature, he imitated Rodrigo bent over his horse, eyes rolling. “Father Rodrigo,” he said definitively.

  “Ah,” said the girl. She crossed herself several times and hummed something like a Gregorian-style chant, her hands in a praying position. “Father Rodrigo?”

  “Father Rodrigo,” Ferenc confirmed. Her emphasis was different than his, but clear enough. “Where? Where is he?”

  She shook her head and shrugged. Ferenc grunted with frustration. Did that shrug mean I don’t know where he is? Or I don’t understand what you’re asking me? He couldn’t tell, and when she asked him a question, he could only shake his head and shrug in return.

  A chill ran up his spine as he considered their inability to communicate. This was not an inconvenience; it was a catastrophe. He knew his own language, and what piecemeal Latin he had gleaned from Father Rodrigo during their long journey, but that was it. Nothing could have prepared him for the trek he’d just completed; never in his life, before the battle at Mohi, could he have imagined himself beyond the boundaries of his native tongue.

  She sensed his anxiety, and rather than joining him in it, she very deliberately calmed herself with a gentle, long breath. She put a hand on his arm and repeated the breath, gesturing for him to do the same. He made a face but breathed with her. And he did feel calmer, although perhaps that was just her hand on his arm, a human touch.

  Ocyrhoe released him and grabbed a few strands of hay. She twisted them, carefully tying the dry straw into a loose knot. “Father Rodrigo,” she said, presenting the twisted strand to him. Glancing around the loft, she spotted a short-handled pitchfork leaning against the wall and scooted across the loft to grab it. Indicating that he should put down the Rodrigo straw man, she put the pitchfork between Ferenc and the knotted strand, and then gazed at him solemnl
y.

  It made no sense to him: if this was meant to graphically display the problem, why didn’t Father Rodrigo just slip through the openings of whatever was keeping him, like stray straw between the tines of a pitchfork? She saw the expression on his face, rolled her eyes, and grabbed the piece of straw, which broke under her angry touch.

  She moved the pitchfork aside and squatted opposite Ferenc. “Father Rodrigo,” she tried again, now pointing to herself, and this time did a very good imitation of a person with hands bound, trying to break free. She pretended she was being dragged away across the loft, her leather sandals dragging a path through the strewn hay. Ferenc gasped, and when Ocyrhoe patted his arm, he let her drag him over to the loft window. She pointed to the right, and when Ferenc looked, he was shocked to realize they were still in the middle of the city, surrounded by far more urbanity than he was used to. There was little to be seen but a spreading sea of other rooftops, russet and brown and gray in the wan morning light.

  “What do we do?” he demanded in frustration. If she knew he had been captured-which was obvious to him now, in retrospect-did she know where he had been taken? And if she did, then how was she going to communicate that location to him? “Can you take me there?” he asked.

  She gave him an impatient frown, her meaning clear: Why do you talk to me with words you know I can’t understand? She pointed to herself and to him, clasped her hands together, and said their names rapidly: “FerencOcyrhoe.” Us.

  Which was the best news he had heard yet. She wasn’t planning on abandoning him, which, of course, meant his course of action was clear as well. He nodded and echoed her compound word. FerencOcyrhoe. Together. A tiny laugh slipped out of him, spurred by an image in his mind. A cool winter’s night a dozen years from now, him telling the story of his incredible adventures around the fire pit to his awestruck children and neighbors.