“There was a girl—” Gawain started. “A woman,” he corrected after noting Lian’s glare. “The daughter of the caravan master. She knew horses, and he had her along to assist with the herd he was bringing to Samarkand. Haidar—the man in charge of the mercenaries hired to protect the herd—desired her. I disagreed with him. One night, he and a number of men he thought he could trust decided they weren’t getting paid enough. One of those men was Bruno, who didn’t find Haidar’s solution very palatable. He warned me and we tried to protect the caravan master and his daughter, but…” He shook his head. “In the confusion, the herd was scattered, and over the next few days, we found each other, along with a number of the horses.”
“Why didn’t you keep riding?” Yasper asked. “After you got away and found some of the horses.”
Gawain looked at him morosely, but it was Lian who spelled it out for the Dutchman. “Because of the daughter,” she said. “She might still be alive.”
“Haidar outnumbers you,” Raphael said. “And you thought to even those odds by joining our two companies together.”
“Aye,” Gawain said. “That thought had occurred to me.”
“And this is how you ask for our assistance?” Cnán snorted. “When Haidar is galloping for our camp?”
Raphael waved her to silence. “If we aid you in this matter, we do so because we deem your side to be the aggrieved party. And if we do, we will require compensation.”
“What do you want?” Gawain asked.
“Horses,” Raphael said.
Gawain showed his teeth when he smiled. “Any horse without a rider at the end of the fight is yours,” he said.
Raphael, dressed in his full panoply and astride one of the smaller horses from the paddock, rode beside Gawain, who was riding one of the Arabian mares, and Percival, who was riding the company’s long-suffering stallion. They were heading south from the rock, following a narrow gully that traced a curving route back to the western end of the rock. Raphael carried his reins loosely in his left hand; in his right, he held his mace. Percival carried sword and shield, and his longsword was strapped to his saddle. Raphael’s shoulders ached slightly from the weight of the maille already, and his helm felt tight on his head–signs that he had not been wearing his kit regularly enough.
When he had been putting it on, he realized that he hadn’t fixed the broken links in the back where the Mongol arrow had injured him. Such carelessness was the very reason knights died on the field of battle. Their maille was a nearly impervious shield against arrows and swords, except when it was ill cared for.
Thankfully, the only one who carried a bow was Gawain. He had been both surprised and saddened when the Welshman had brought out the long oilskin bundle and strung the longbow. A longbow would make quite a difference, as he had seen on several occasions in the past, and seeing the bow reminded him of Rædwulf.
The twelve riders were clearly visible on the plain now, and as the gully turned east, Gawain reined in his horse and dismounted. He dumped his arrow bag on the ground and scuffed clear a patch on the hard ground beside the gully.
The gully was not more than a pace across, easily crossed by a horse and not much of a jump for a man, but it was as close to a defensive barrier as they were going to find. Raphael leaned over and glanced down. The gully was deep enough that a man could crouch within it and not be seen. He let his gaze follow the gully’s path back toward the rock. He tried to spot any movement along the rim and saw nothing.
Percival’s horse was nosing along the rim of the gully, seeking tender shoots of new grass, and the Frank pulled his reins slightly, reminding the horse of where its attention should be.
Gawain started sticking arrows, point first, into the ground. “Don’t let me keep you,” he grunted as he slid the fifth arrow into the ground.
Percival nodded and tugged his horse so that it would trot along the edge of the gully, away from Gawain.
“Try to keep your distance from them,” Gawain said to Raphael. “It will make my job easier.”
Raphael felt the muscles in his lower back twitch. “I’ll remember that,” he said. He set his horse after Percival and both men led their mounts in a large widdershins circle, urging them to run faster as they came back at the gully again. Both horses cleared the gap in the ground, and Raphael’s helmet bounced precariously on his head for a moment after he landed on the far side of the gully.
The dozen riders angled toward them, spreading out into a large arc across the open steppe. From the center, one rider urged his horse out in front of the rest. Raphael and Percival slowed their horses. If the lone rider was interested in a parlay, Raphael would hear what the man had to say.
The man was dressed in the sort of hodge-podge of armor that was not uncommon among mercenaries: a boiled leather breastplate over a short maille shirt, stiffened leather on his shoulders and arms, heavy gloves, and a metal helm with extra pieces on the back and sides to further protect his neck. His skin was darker than Raphael’s and his beard was trimmed in the Muslim style.
Transferring his reins to his right hand, Raphael raised his left in greeting as the man came within speaking distance. “Salam, traveler,” he called out in Arabic, offering the abbreviated Muslim greeting that was appropriate for the circumstances.
The rider slowed his horse to a stop and returned the greeting. “Christians?” he asked, pointing at the sigil on Percival’s surcoat. His Arabic was inflected with an accent that Raphael had come to know as influenced by the Turkic tongue. “Christendom is very far from here. Are you lost?”
“Not entirely,” Raphael replied. “You?”
The man leaned on his saddle horn, smiling at Raphael. “No,” he said. “I know these lands. I’m looking for some horses.”
Raphael glanced over his shoulder. In the distance, against the dark bulk of the rock, he could make out a few of the horses, moving about the paddock. “And you think those might be them?” he asked, turning back to the man.
“They might be.”
“Those are not the horses you’re looking for,” Raphael said.
The man frowned as if Raphael had just told him the sky was not blue or that the sun did not rise in the east and set in the west. “I wasn’t asking you,” he said, some of the civility vanishing from his voice. “In fact, I should be asking that one there”—he jerked his chin over Raphael’s shoulder, indicating Gawain—“if he knows anything about those horses.”
“He’s not the man you’re looking for,” Raphael said.
The rider laughed, and there was little humor in his tone. “Why do you keep telling me that things that I know are not true? I am not blind. I can see Gawain right over there with his big longbow and his big arrows. I know that whoreson Bruno is here somewhere as well. I know those horses belong to me, and I’m here to take them.”
Raphael shook his head. “Are you calling me a liar?” he asked. He turned his head to Percival. “He’s calling us liars,” he said in Latin.
“I do not care for such language,” Percival replied, his voice muffled by his helmet. He lowered his spear, which he had been pointing at the sky, until the tip was directed at the rider.
“What did he say?” the rider asked, the bluster starting to drain from his face.
“He said he did not like being called a liar,” Raphael told him. “What is your name?”
“What?”
“Your name,” Raphael repeated. “We would know the name of the man who is claiming that we are ill-born men who speak with the tongues of snakes.”
“I never said that,” the man protested.
“You have said very little beyond veiled accusations,” Raphael pointed out.
The man opened his mouth and closed it several times, and the last time he left it closed, muscles flexed along his jaw. “My name is Haidar,” he said finally.
“I am Raphael and this is Percival,” Raphael said, indicating his companion. “We are knight initiates of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intact
ae, and we have been informed that you have engaged in the willful execution of innocents in pursuit of financial gain. How do you answer this accusation?”
“With your blood!” Haidar spat. He kicked his heels against his horse’s barrel, twisting the beast’s head around with his reins. The horse snorted and started, and Haidar galloped back toward his line of men.
“What did he say?” Percival asked.
“I asked an impertinent question,” Raphael replied. “And now he wants to kill us too.”
“You are such a poor negotiator,” Percival said. He slapped his reins, and as his horse leaped into a gallop, he let loose with the Shield-Brethren war cry.
“That wasn’t a negotiation,” Raphael pointed out before he followed the Frank into battle.
Gawain watched the two Shield-Brethren ride toward the line of Arabs, silently counting each of the long galloping strides taken by the horses. He and Bruno had long scouted all the terrain around the rock, especially after the sudden arrival of the strangers, making note of the places where they could mount an effective defense. He knew the distance from the gully to a single bush that had been trimmed in such a way that it appeared to be nothing more than a single tuft of dark leaves atop a naked stalk. That bush was the outward edge of his effective range with the longbow. Further than that, whether his arrow struck its target or not was fate and luck.
Haidar crossed the invisible line denoted by the bush, but the remaining riders were tantalizingly beyond it. They’ll come, he thought as he flexed his fingers and waited, fighting the urge to put an arrow into Haidar.
He heard someone hiss his name, and he glanced down without moving his head. The Binder, Cnán, peered up at him from the base of the gully. She flashed him the sign that the others were ready, and he gave her a tiny nod.
Once the Shield-Brethren had decided that it was in everyone’s best interest to stand together against Haidar, their plan had come together incredibly quickly. He had mentioned the gully and his range marker. Yasper had quickly seized on the gully as more than a defensive barrier, Percival had volunteered to be the lure, and Raphael had insisted on attempting to resolve the conflict without bloodshed.
Good luck, Gawain had said to him.
Success will not depend upon luck, the knight had replied.
The largest difficulty lay in corralling the enemy riders. The steppe was devoid of any significant land masses or defects that would create natural barriers and channels, and they had no time to erect such defenses. The rock was a natural defense, but if the riders got that close, they would be in their camp. They would have to move all the horses. No, it was better to meet them further afield.
Yasper had retrieved one of the cakes he was baking in the fire with a pair of narrow tongs, and had promised that he could manage to create a diversion that would drive the horses in a narrow path. We just have to give them a target to focus on, he had explained, and everyone had looked at Gawain.
Haidar knows about my bow, Gawain had argued. They won’t ride at me. They’ll try to stay out of my range and circle around.
Trust me, Yasper had cackled. They’ll come at you.
I’ll help convince them, Percival had suggested.
Gawain hadn’t been entirely convinced, but no plan was ever foolproof, and this one seemed as good as any that he and Bruno had concocted over the last space of time.
The knights were talking with Haidar now, and Gawain calmly reached for his first arrow, setting it lightly across the nock. He lifted his head, testing the breeze on his cheek, mentally adjusting for the slight wind moving from left to right. He exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders relax and his eyes become slightly unfocused. His right fingers were resting lightly on the string of his bow, cradling the end of his arrow as he stood and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. As soon as he saw the horses move and heard Percival’s war cry, he thrust all of the air out of his lungs and drew back the heavy string of his bow in a smooth motion—chest, back, legs, and arms all working in concert to draw the string. He held his breath for a second, peering along the shaft of his arrow, and then he released the string.
The spear Percival carried was too short to be a true lance, but he couched it like one as he charged after Haidar. The mercenary glanced back over his shoulder once and, spotting Percival, he jerked his horse to the right, looping out across the steppe. Percival ignored him, knowing he wasn’t going far, and concentrated instead on the line of Arab mercenaries who were now riding toward him as well, swords upraised. He kept the blade of his spear pointed forward, over his horse, as the beast galloped to meet the other men. He felt the shock of its legs pounding against the ground up through his pelvis, and he leaned forward in his saddle. At the last second, he swung the tip of his spear out, angling it directly at the closest man on his right.
The spear struck something firm, and the butt of the shaft was shoved painfully into his side. A second later, a sword struck his upraised shield, notching the top edge not far from his face. Then his horse was through the line and, using his legs, he turned it back toward the fray. The tip of his spear was red with blood, and he spotted the man he had hit, sprawled in the dirt. His riderless horse trotted aimlessly away from the battle.
Raphael had reached the line, and Percival watched as the knight bashed a man on the side of the head with his mace, knocking the Arab out of the saddle. Nearby another man slumped in his saddle, vainly plucking at the long arrow protruding from his side, and with a quick flick of his wrist, Raphael ended the Arab’s pain.
Another pair were charging toward Percival, and he braced himself in the saddle and hurled his spear. The tip struck the Arab’s shield in the upper portion, went through, and appeared to pierce the man’s chest beneath. Percival caught sight of the man’s stunned expression before he leaned back, still affixed to his shield, and fell off the back of his horse. The other rider thundered past, his sword banging on Percival’s shield, and kicking his horse into motion, Percival drew his longsword from its sheath and pursued the rider.
Other riders were attempting to avoid the two knights entirely, riding their horses in a wide arc to flank the camp, but their horses shied away from plumes of red and black smoke that had begun to rise from the ground. Yasper had hidden alchemical smoke pots in the gully, and the dank and noxious cloud drove the horses back toward the center.
Back toward Gawain.
Gawain had lost count of his arrows. It had been more than a year since he had been in battle such as this, and then he had been in the company of several other archers and they were well away from the heart of the battle. On the steppe, with the wind blowing the acrid smoke from the left and the confusion among the riders, he was concentrating heavily on each target, trying not to lose track of a specific horse and rider as they galloped across the smoke-strewn plain.
They were winning. Of that much, he was certain. There were only five riders left, and two of them were the knights. There were a number of horses wandering about without riders, and he didn’t bother to count them.
He was looking for Haidar. He had lost track of the caravan captain after his first arrow had missed, and he had been distracted by the riders whose horses had approached the eastern bank of smoke pots. He had spent an arrow on each rider, and was laying the third across the nock of his bow when Raphael had ridden the remaining rider down.
Gawain sensed movement on his right, and he turned, drawing his bow. He loosed his arrow and swore as it passed over Haidar’s head. The rider was leaning forward, presenting as small a profile as possible.
Gawain reached for another arrow, and his fingers encountered nothing but empty space. He looked away from his target, scanning the ground nearby, and saw no more arrows stuck in the ground. His arrow bag was several paces away, lying near the edge of the gully.
The top of Cnán’s head was visible in the gully, and he snapped his fingers at her. “Arrow,” he hissed, checking the distance to Haidar. The horse was coming fast.
“Get me an arrow.” When he risked another glance at the gully, the young woman was staring at him, mouth agape. “Arrow!” he shouted.
Cnán figured out what he needed, and she scrambled out of the gully like a fox darting for a fat bird. She stumbled over his bag, nearly impaling herself on several arrows as she tried to get one free of the canvas sack.
Haidar was sitting up, a wicked grin on his face. His sword ready, he whipped his reins against his horse, urging the beast to gallop faster.
This will be close, Gawain thought. Cnán extricated an arrow and thrust it toward Gawain, even as Gawain took a sideways step toward her. He felt the shaft of the arrow smack into the palm of his open hand, and without taking his eyes off his target, he put the arrow across his bow and…
It was facing the wrong way. The sharp tip was laid across the string.
Haidar’s horse jumped over the gully, and Cnán screamed, leaping out of the way. Haidar’s sword glinted in the afternoon light, and Gawain ducked, raising his bow to protect his head. The sword blade whistled past his ear, and he felt a sharp pain at the base of his neck, and then wetness start to spill down inside his gambeson. His bow was nearly wrenched out of his hands and he heard Haidar grunt loudly, and then as the horse galloped away, he heard the sound of a body striking the ground.
He turned, his right hand twisting the arrow into the correct orientation, and he caught the merest glimpse of Haidar charging toward him, sword upraised. He stopped thinking, stopping paying attention to what his eyes were telling him; he drew the bowstring back and released the arrow.
Haidar’s savage cry was cut short with an audible gulp. Something bounced off his foot, and Gawain looked down to see Haidar’s sword lying on the ground beside him.
Haidar was several paces away, lying on his side and mewling like an injured dog. His hands were plucking at a small bloom of feathers in his belly; protruding from his back was the long and bloodied shaft of Gawain’s arrow.
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 15