The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  In the two heartbeats it took Andreas to steady himself enough to pursue, his opponent had already regained his feet and his sword. They stood facing one another again, and as he took the other man’s measure, Andreas felt a chill run through him.

  He doesn’t even look winded.

  Kristaps watched as the Shield-Brethren hesitated a mere fraction of a second at the sight of him standing ready. Behind his helm, Volquin’s Dragon smiled. You’re afraid, little knight. Afraid, and stupid to let me know it.

  Once more, he raised his sword in salute. Amid the storm of shrieking faces that surrounded them, Kristaps was a focal point of channeled calm. The Shield-Brethren of Petraathen were the stuff of legends told from one end of Europe to the other. Kristaps knew all the stories, had believed them himself once upon a time, and he knew the lie they all imparted. No man, no matter how skilled, was ever anything more than bone, blood, and flesh, kept breathing only because another man hadn’t yet cut him open.

  God willing, he would cut this one open. And all of his brothers as well. That was the debt owed. That was the promise he had made and that he intended to keep, as long as he could wield a weapon. As long as he too could breathe.

  Kristaps kept his sword up, watching the other man, how he moved and taking note of what it might tell him of the way that he thought. From the stories Dietrich had told him the night before, Andreas was a bold fool, according to his Heermeister, an audacious soul who might be assumed to leap before he looked. Kristaps doubted this was true. The Shield-Brethren were exceptionally trained, to a fault. Their actions might appear like those of a careless fool, but they always knew the risks. They always planned ahead.

  Andreas’s first assault had been a clear indicator, and in another time and place, Kristaps might have congratulated Andreas on the feint which had resulted in him being thrown. But it had been a mistake. He should have followed through and killed me, Kristaps thought as the spear tip came at him once more, lancing through the air. Because now I know the measure.

  Kristaps stepped into the latest thrust, his blade sweeping the point aside. Abruptly Andreas made a rowing motion with his weapon and too late Kristaps saw what he was doing as the butt smashed into his chest. He gave a sharp breath and drew back. He brought his sword up and then down, aborting a second rotation of the spear.

  A fighter learns how to endure a blow without giving ground, without wincing and crumpling around the pain. It is a basic survival skill, one mastered quickly and readily. In an open field, the advantage would have belonged to the Shield-Brethren, the limitless range of his potential movement allowing him to constantly keep Kristaps at bay. The arena hemmed both of them in, however, and a fighter who fled from every blow would eventually be pushed up against a wall.

  He who was trapped first died.

  They had separated again, following his disruption of Andreas’s attempts to beat him with the knobbed end of his spear. Andreas came at him once more, thrusting in rapid succession at his midsection, his head, and his foot. Smart plays, Kristaps thought as he kept his distance, but there was only so much he could do with that attack.

  Kristaps swept his sword upward from a low guard and intercepted the next thrust. He locked the shaft with his weapon and then stepped in to tuck it behind his arm. Andreas knew what he was doing and stepped in too, throwing his head forward. Their helmets slammed together, and Kristaps tried to take the brunt of Andreas’s furious head butt on the ridge of his helmet.

  His ears ringing, Kristaps shoved Andreas away. A smile spread across his face as he reset his guard and circled his opponent.

  This was going to be more of a challenge than he thought.

  Andreas had faced members of the Livonian order before, but this one was different. He was strong and skilled, and that was to be expected, but there was more to him than simple martial prowess. There was a disturbing familiarity in his movements, even in the way he forced separation and covered his retreat. He’s been trained by one of ours.

  Andreas couldn’t rely on wearing his implacable foe down. The blows he had landed so far had been fierce, but they were the sort of trauma that would leave bruises and cause stiffness tomorrow. They weren’t going to change the fight today. Andreas could feel the Khan’s box behind him, its occupant at the heart of all his endeavors here. This Livonian was not a friend, that much was certain, and the only way he could accomplish the plan-and it was his alone, at this point-was through victory.

  He’d bested his own brothers before; he could do the same here. End this, was his final thought on the matter. There is no more time.

  Andreas launched himself forward with a powerful thrust aimed at the Livonian’s neck. His opponent stepped off line and to his left, his left hand darting from the pommel of his sword to midway up the blade, dashing in faster than Andreas could retreat. The spear was ultimately a weapon made to keep opponents at range, but when the enemy bypassed the point and stepped inside, then that advantage was utterly lost and the weapon could rapidly become a liability. As the Livonian stepped forward, the tip of his blade hooked Andreas’s hand against the shaft, and had it not been for the maille that protected his limbs, the back of his hand would have been cut straight to the bone.

  He tried to withdraw, but the Livonian had already slipped behind him, and the pommel and grip of the greatsword were looped around his neck. He dropped his weight, but found the Livonian had beaten him to that trick first. The sky and the ground reversed their positions as he flew backward, landing painfully on the ground.

  The Livonian was coming for him. The spear had landed within arm’s reach, and Andreas snatched it up, waving it around from where he lay on his back. The motions were forceful and wild, but they had the desired effect of forcing his opponent to back up enough to let him regain his feet.

  The Livonian stared at him, his posture bespeaking absolute confidence. Abruptly, the man spread his arms wide, leaving his chest open to attack. He’s goading me, Andreas realized, and I have no choice.

  With a cry, he launched himself forward, the spear lancing toward his enemy’s chest.

  The Shield-Brethren was starting to panic. With a smile, Kristaps gave ground as his opponent lashed out with his spear, trying to buy enough time to regain his footing. Get up, Kristaps thought, as he retreated from the slashing spear tip. The Shield-Brethren had been expecting a different opponent; Kristaps doubted he would have brought the same weapon to the arena had he known whom he was fighting. Ordinarily, fighting against a spear was a severe disadvantage, but the First Sword of Fellin had been at Schaulen and other fields of battle and he knew the walls of the arena reduced his opponent’s advantage. There were far fewer ways to fight a man with a spear, and once desperation started to creep in, the options became even more limited. His opponent was starting to panic; his fear was plain in his motions as he struggled to regain his feet. A desperate man forgot his advantages quickly, and was more prone to carelessness at the slightest hint of an opportunity for a quick victory.

  They stood apart now, panting. Kristaps watched the other man assess him. His own blood was up and his mind alert and sharp. The Shield-Brethren could not touch him.

  With deliberate slowness, he spread his arms wide, leaving his body undefended. Come, his posture said, let me make it easy for you.

  The Shield-Brethren took the bait. It was his only chance, and both men knew it. He was quick, but speed could not counter strategy when his enemy was ready for it. It was a well-delivered strike, and would have skewered Kristaps like a pig had it landed.

  Kristaps stepped forward, bringing his sword to the center just in time to catch the spear tip upon the base of his blade, pushing it aside. The thrust was broken, but the Shield-Brethren’s momentum was not. Kristaps levered his greatsword forward the mere foot of distance necessary to plant its point squarely in his enemy’s chest. It was not enough to penetrate the maille and padded gambeson, but Kristaps watched with satisfaction as the man jerked violently at the blow and
fought the urge to crumple. A rib might have cracked, muscles torn by the sudden contraction.

  He raised his blade for another blow, preparing to bring the sword down in a bone-breaking strike that would shear through maille and shatter limbs, but the Shield-Brethren’s hand shot beneath his elbow, keeping his sword arm at bay. A desperate effort that would only prevent what came next for a few more seconds. The Shield-Brethren’s arm was extended now, and it was Kristaps who was inside the range of his weapons. His left hand slid from the pommel of the greatsword as he twisted his hips, hooked the shaft of the spear, and drove it behind the Shield-Brethren’s legs.

  This is the first of many blows owed you and yours. Kristaps smiled, and snapped his hips back, levering the Shield-Brethren with tremendous force and hurling him to the ground. He managed to roll, struggling to regain his feet as Kristaps watched, now holding his greatsword in his right hand and his enemy’s spear in his left. You are unarmed. You are wounded. You have already lost.

  He hefted the shaft, and threw it back toward his foe. Goading him now. You are no threat to me.

  The trap had been sprung, and Andreas had landed badly. When he struggled to his feet his breath was coming in difficult rasps, his head throbbing with pain. The stillness of his enemy was unnerving, absolute in its predatory, watchful confidence. Andreas had begun the fight in uncertainty, his resolve shaken. Now, feeling the agonizing fire in his chest, the only possible end to this confrontation was making itself clear. I am going to die.

  The spear sailed toward him and he caught it reflexively. The motion of snapping his arm out to seize the shaft sent ripples of white-hot pain through his chest, shoulders, and back. He was losing the battle rush, and when the sword tip had struck him, something had broken. His legs were sluggish, and his maille and gambeson made it feel like he was carrying two or three full-grown men on his shoulders. The Livonian stood before him, his sword at the ready, watching with the contemptuous contemplation of a cat enjoying a game with a mouse before it has a meal. The sun was relentless in its attention, and what felt like rivers of sweat were coursing down his back and legs.

  Behind the Livonian, the colorful flags atop the Khan’s box fluttered, calling to him.

  All at once the fear was gone, and Andreas gasped at the sudden clarity that lay before him. The goal of this battle, whether the advantage had been his or not, had never been about survival. It would have been nice had the Virgin allowed him and his absent ally to walk away laughing with a grand tale to tell his brothers back in Petraathen when this was all done and past, but that had always been an indolent dream. Even Hans had known.

  His hands tightened on the spear and he set his teeth against the pain. Andreas had heard stories from older brothers, speaking of the times when they had believed death upon them, how their senses became sharper. When fear fled, everything became serene and perfect. One last gift from the Virgin before she came to collect her brave warriors.

  It was all he needed. One last gift. One last throw.

  He sprang toward the Livonian, his spear flickering before him in a last flurry of thrusts. The Livonian defended himself, almost lazily, as if he could not quite believe that his opponent thought this assault would bear fruit. His enemy sidestepped the first thrust toward his midsection, swatted the spear tip aside as it came again at his helmet, and then-becoming bored with the same sequence being forced upon him once again-rushed in with a killing blow. It was exactly what Andreas had expected. He let the spear whirl around in his hands as the Livonian came at him, and smashed the butt of the weapon into the flat of the greatsword’s blade, sending it veering off its course and to the side. Control the motion, control the body.

  The butt of the spear was now between the Livonian’s weapon and his body. Andreas slammed his weight into his enemy’s flank, and used the shaft of the spear to hook his foe’s neck. He dropped his hips, twisted all his weight against the pain, and sent the Livonian through the air, his body crashing into the ground. Get out of my way.

  The crowds were roaring in his ears, expecting a finishing move. But Andreas ignored his opponent, continuing his mad dash across the sand. His legs cried out in pain; he ignored them. His chest was afire with the agony of each breath, but he would only need his lungs for a few moments longer.

  The Khan’s box hung before him, a massive work of wood painted with red and gold and decorated with the stolen fineries of a thousand looted kingdoms. A pair of gleaming curtains shielded its occupants from the rays of the summer sun, stirring now in the wind. Andreas held one arm before him to steady his aim. You should have known better, he thought. Out of the reach of a sword, but not my spear. A gift, Onghwe Khan. I give you my life, so that I might take yours…

  Limbs burning, chest screaming, Andreas set his weight, and threw his weapon, as hard and as far as he had ever done. As he watched it sail through the air, white-hot agony seared through his body-from his shoulder to his hip-and all feeling went out of his legs and his right arm. The world spun and he was no longer looking up at the Khan’s box. A shadow passed overhead, and all he could see was the red and wet sand of the arena. He tried to lift his head, tried to find the Khan’s box. Had his spear found its mark? Virgin, into thy hands I place my-

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Into Hyperborea

  Where are we?” Yasper squinted up at the sky, as if assessing the location of the sun might be of some assistance in an otherwise futile effort at divining their location. In all directions, the steppe went on forever, a flatness marred only by the scraggly knobs of wormwood.

  The landscape was-though Cnan didn’t want to belabor the point-not much different from what it had been for the previous phase of the moon. “We’re getting close,” she said, catching Raphael’s eye and hiding a smile.

  “Close to what?” the Dutch alchemist wanted to know. He idly scratched his jaw, an unconscious tic most of the men had adopted since they had shaved their beards as part of Feronantus’s initiative to blend in more readily.

  Other than Raphael and Istvan, the men were very Western in appearance, and given their need to move quickly and effortlessly across the broad steppe they needed to be less conspicuous. With much grumbling, they had shaved their heads and beards, and with the assistance of a salve concocted by the alchemist and daily exposure to the sun, their skin tones had been darkened as well.

  “We’re close to that bush over there,” Cnan said, pointing.

  “Ah,” Yasper said, throwing up his hands. “Now I know exactly where we are.” He dropped his arms until he could look down one arm at the bush (which looked like every other bush for miles in any direction) and along the other at the route they had been following. “Yes,” he said, wrinkling his nose and peering down his arm, “it is a good thing I have the latest inventions from Arabia to guide us.” He wiggled one of his thumbs. “We are, and this measurement is exceptionally accurate-”

  “To within one thumb width, at least,” R?dwulf interjected.

  “Better mine than yours,” Yasper chortled. “As I was saying, yes, we are exactly halfway.” He raised his arms again and looked at the company, rather pleased with himself.

  Istvan chewed on the end of his mustache and glowered. Both Percival and Feronantus dozed in their saddles, oblivious to the alchemist’s wit. Eleazar was a half mile ahead, riding point, and of the remaining quartet-Vera, Raphael, R?dwulf, and Cnan-only Cnan regularly engaged Yasper. She liked the quirky Dutchman’s company; he had a lively insouciance and an inquisitive eagerness that made the long days and nights of their journey palatable. When she had made this journey west before, she had ridden along for many, many months, and she could recall very little of the journey.

  Cnan stole a glance at Feronantus and Percival. They were alike in many ways, even though many years separated them. Feronantus was, in fact, old enough to have fathered every member of the company and, in some cases, of such an age that he could be someone’s grandfather. Percival was younger than the other Shield
-Brethren, but it was his bearing and his vision that lent the impression of gravid wisdom, the sort that usually comes with having survived many hard winters. In fact, she was starting to think that he was not much older than she, and this realization had caused her some distress a few days back.

  “I am quite serious, though,” Yasper continued, dragging her from her thoughts. “Where are we?”

  “It’s not far now,” she replied, enjoying the consternation her words wrought on the alchemist’s face.

  “Weren’t we supposed to meet that trader, Benjamin?”

  “We are.”

  “When? We didn’t meet up with him after the river. You found a note that we were supposed to go somewhere else. A rock, wasn’t it? Some sort of landmark that would be obvious. How many days’ journey was that supposed to have been?”

  “Six,” she said. “But we were chasing Alchiq, remember?”

  “I thought we were looking for Istvan.”

  Cnan shrugged as if to say those two things were one and the same. “We went north when we should have been going south.”

  Yasper groaned. “I knew we should have stayed closer to the trade routes.”

  “We’ll be there soon,” Cnan assured him.

  “You still haven’t told me where there is.”

  “Soon.” She nodded toward the horizon. “Can’t you see it?”

  Yasper whirled in his saddle, leaning forward like a hunting dog catching a scent. He even quivered a bit in excitement. “Where?” he said, a tiny quaver in his voice.

  R?dwulf pointed, and Cnan marveled at his eyesight. She knew the rock lay in that direction; she had felt the gentle tug in her belly earlier in her day that said she was going in the right direction, but she hadn’t spotted the lone finger of stone jutting up from the steppe yet. She had been looking for it, and even though the air was crystalline in its clarity, she couldn’t see it yet. But, apparently, R?dwulf could.