The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  On the opposite side of the ring, guards had shepherded his opponent into position, and Haakon eyed the smaller man carefully. A Kitayan, not unlike his Mongolian captors, but darker of skin and leaner. He wasn’t much older than Haakon, and his face was dotted with scruff from a beard that steadfastly refused to grow in fully.

  A weapon clattered on the ground next to Haakon. He felt the weapon’s impact more than he heard it, as the crowd erupted into a shouting mass as soon as the sword landed. Across the ring, the Kitayan darted for his own weapon, scooping it up and charging across the open circle. Haakon wasted a precious second looking around for his wooden sword.

  The Kitayan presented a flurry of quick jabs, and Haakon-out of position from having been slow to get his weapon-could barely keep ahead of them. But he still ascertained quite a bit about his opponent’s style during the first series of rapid strikes: the Kitayan had a shorter reach, he wasn’t as strong as Haakon, and he thought he was quicker.

  Haakon beat the next strike aside with much more strength than was necessary, forcing the Kitayan to redirect his own blade. As soon as he felt the other’s sword clear his blade, he flicked his wrist, snapping the wooden point toward his opponent’s face.

  The Kitayan reacted badly, throwing his sword up in a frantic block. The wooden swords clacked together noisily, and for a second, the Kitayan held the block, trying to muscle Haakon’s blade. All he accomplished was holding his-and Haakon’s-blade steady for a moment.

  Long enough for Haakon to reach out with his left hand and grab the tip of the Kitayan’s sword. Wrapping his fingers around the wooden point, he twisted his wrist sharply.

  It was a training response-grab what is close to you-and attempting this move with sharp steel was decidedly dangerous. It was important to remember that wood was different from steel-a distinction that had caught Haakon off guard during his gladiatorial bout for the Khagan.

  Haakon twisted and pulled, yanking the other man’s weapon out of his hands as the audience cheered and stomped their feet with approval. He tossed the Kitayan’s weapon aside, not caring where it landed, as he reversed his own weapon so as to bash his opponent in the face with the pommel. The Kitayan stumbled backward, his chin tucked into his neck as he tried to get away from Haakon’s wooden hilt.

  He didn’t bring his hands up to block his face. Instead he fumbled with his shirt, and the motion was incongruous enough that Haakon sensed something was not quite right. He wasn’t that clumsy.

  Firelight gleamed off polished metal as the Kitayan reversed direction, lunging toward Haakon. Something narrow and sharp was clenched in his fist, and Haakon dropped his right hand quickly, trying to block the Kitayan’s lightning attack. The wooden sword bounced off the Kitayan’s arm, spoiling his aim, and Haakon felt a finger of ice run up his chest.

  The Kitayan danced away, his right arm tucked against his side, his fist held tight against his waist. Hiding whatever was clenched in his hand.

  Haakon glanced down at his chest, and saw the ragged tear in his shirt. The icy line on his chest was burning now, and when he pressed a hand against the cut, it came away red.

  The Kitayan had a knife. A very sharp knife.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Noose Tightens

  Crouched behind the wreckage of a weathered barrel, Hans watched the meeting between the Mongols and the Livonian Heermeister. He had been attempting to approach the Mongol camp stealthily, but too many of the obscured and secret routes used by the Rats had been demolished in the riotous hours following the Rose Knight’s death. He had been forced to skulk along the more well-traveled routes, and as a result, he had stumbled upon the standoff. His well-honed sense of self-preservation-the Rat sense that kept all the boys alive-warned him that he shouldn’t tarry, but as surely as the sun had risen, he couldn’t tear himself away. Especially after he heard the Livonian Heermeister offer to betray the Rose Knights.

  He pressed his head against the barrel, and his fingers dug into the soft wood. He clenched his lips shut, trying to suppress the wordless cry quaking in his throat. Was there even time to warn them?

  He flinched at the sound of the Mongol commander’s shout, and he recovered from this fright in time to see both of the Heermeister’s bodyguards topple from their saddles, pierced by Mongol arrows. He stared, transfixed as firmly as the Heermeister and the priest, as the Mongol group surged forward, surrounding the two remaining horsemen. There was some confusion for a moment as Mongol warriors seized the reins of the four Western horses and got them turned around, and then the entire war party galloped down the street.

  Leaving the two dead Livonians.

  One of them was still alive. The Livonian bodyguard lay on his side, facing Hans, and the man’s eyes rolled loosely in their sockets. His mouth kept opening and closing, like he was having trouble breathing, and blood dribbled out. His hand clawed at the ground, one of the fingers bent awkwardly-the lowest knuckle had been crushed by the hoof of a Mongol horse.

  Hans didn’t know what he could do to ease the man’s suffering, but he couldn’t bear to watch him die. He edged out from behind his shelter, drawn toward the dying man by a primal sympathetic urge to provide what succor he could.

  A hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him back. A tiny yip leaped out of his throat, and he lashed out with hands and feet in a frantic attempt to extricate himself from his captor’s grip. The man holding him grunted once as Hans’s elbow connected, and then Hans was wrapped in a tight embrace. “Hold still,” a voice hissed in his ear. Hans continued to struggle as he was bodily carried into an alley.

  Fearing what would happen when he was out of sight of the dying Livonian-as well as any other passerby-he redoubled his efforts to escape from his captor’s strong arms. The man holding him let go, spinning him around, and as Hans caught sight of the man’s face, he took aim and swung his fist as hard as he could.

  A hand caught the blow, turned it aside. The face behind it was weathered and aged, with a look not unlike wind-scarred wood or stone, worn down by time. Its gray eyes were alight with both amusement and a fierce intensity that Hans dimly recognized.

  “Ach, you are quick,” the old man said. When he saw Hans hesitate, he lifted his chin so that the young boy could look upon his face more fully. “Do you recognize me, boy?”

  Hans, his fist still clenched, nodded. “At the chapter house of the Rose Knights.”

  “That’s right. After you met Andreas, he sent for me. Do you remember my name? I am Rutger. The Rose Knights are-”

  Rutger gasped as Hans, recognition coming to him like a bolt of lighting, impulsively rushed to embrace the older man. A bemused expression on his face, Rutger lowered his arms around the boy and held him close. “We’ve come to keep Andreas’s promise,” he said. He pressed his cheek against Hans’s head. “Our fallen brother will not be forgotten.”

  The air inside the ger was stifling. Zug lay as still as possible, for every motion was a struggle against the torpid air. His body complained endlessly about the beating administered by the guard, and while none of his bones were broken, his frame was covered with bruises and dried blood. To be spared grievous injury suggested the Mongols were not yet done punishing him.

  All he could do was lie still and wait. Wait for the end to come.

  Yet, his mood was not as dark as the bruises. He had endured worse discomfort. He had lived with pain before. This suffering would not last.

  The fly that had dragged him out of his stupor buzzed in his ear again, and he tried to remember how to make the sack of flesh work, how to move his bones. Zzzzzzzzuuuuuu-

  It wasn’t a fly. It was a man’s voice.

  Orange and white sparks-like crazed fireflies-danced across his eyelids as he dragged them open. There was some light-the day had not yet passed-but it was a weak glow through the gaps in the hide walls of the ger. Most of the shadows were gray shapes flitting at the edge of his vision. He stared at the iron bars of his cage for some time, waiting for
the pain behind his eyes to pass.

  This was the same cage he had been in after his fight in the arena. They had beaten him then too, but the worst part of that punishment had been the quivering shakes as the demons in his blood cried out for alcohol. Those demons were gone, pissed out some time ago, and all that remained was the old hollowness. The ragged ghost who had haunted his mind since he had left home. Dead man, it whispered in the bleak emptiness. Dead…

  With a groan that he felt all the way down to his toes, he forced his shoulder to move, and he rolled onto his back. He let his head flop over until his cheek rested against the sticky sand scattered across the floor of the cage.

  He was not alone in the cage. Huddled against the bars was another sack of flesh. Black hair, matted with blood. Face swollen and purple with bruises. Did he look that bad?

  The other figure peered at him with one eye, the other hidden beneath a mass of puffy purple flesh. “Zzzzuuuuggg…” The voice issuing from the man’s throat was a ragged whisper that slowly crawled across the sandy floor of the cage.

  “Kiiii-” Was that his voice? He didn’t recognize it, but the noise brought a smile to the other man’s face. A blood-stained smile.

  “Still here,” Kim whispered. He coughed, or maybe he laughed. It was hard to tell. “They should have killed us.”

  Zug swallowed, his throat raw and parched. “They made a mistake,” he managed.

  In his head, the old ghost laughed.

  May God have mercy on me for my lies, Dietrich prayed as he rode in the midst of the Mongol raiding party. All he had wanted was to save his men from the same ignoble defeat that had slain so many at Schaulen, and all he had accomplished so far was the ugly deaths of his bodyguards-two of the most loyal and trusty knights in his command. It was as if God was punishing him already for his hubris. How dare he think his order more worthy of salvation than any other knights of Christendom. Did they not worship the same God? Yet, he had offered to sacrifice them in order to save his own. Was such an act worthy of a Christian soldier?

  These are the decisions a Grandmaster must make, he reminded himself, recalling his last visit to Rome and his audience with the Pope. Gregory IX had offered his ring for Dietrich to kiss, and the Heermeister had gotten down on one knee and kissed the old man’s hand. Sacrifices must be made, the Pope had said, offering Dietrich his other hand, and Dietrich had kissed the smaller gold ring as well. The one with the broken sigil. He had sworn fealty not only to the Church and the Pope, but to something older than both.

  Beside Dietrich, Father Pius clung to his horse like a wet rag. The priest had not stopped whimpering since the Mongols had swept both of them into their column, and the way the priest was quivering in his saddle, Dietrich was surprised the coward hadn’t pissed himself.

  “They will release us,” Pius squeaked, his voice thin and shrill. Dietrich wasn’t sure if the priest was asking him what was-in his mind-an entirely rhetorical and pointless question, or if the priest thought that endless repetition would make the words true. Twice now the priest had tried to engage the Mongols in some sort of discourse, but the warriors closest to them had only laughed at the priest’s timorous words. The second time, one of the warriors had whacked Pius about the head and shoulders with his bow, finding even more amusement in the noises the priest made with each blow. Eventually Pius realized the only way to make the man stop his abuse was to stop shrieking.

  “They will kill us, as soon as they remember we’re not useful to them,” Dietrich growled. He didn’t say it to frighten the priest even more, but to focus the man’s attention. “More specifically, they will kill you as soon as they no longer need my words translated. Your survival depends on mine. Do you understand?”

  The priest stared at Dietrich, eyes frozen with fear. Pius’s horse snorted and danced a few jerky steps as the priest lost control of his bladder.

  The Shield-Brethren were housed in an old monastery north of the ruins of Koischwitz, and while Dietrich surmised it was possible to approach the chapter house through the woods between the destroyed hamlet and the old ruins, that approach would be noisy and difficult for a host of riders. By fielding a sizable war party, the Mongols had sacrificed stealth and speed for numbers. Dietrich did not know how many Shield-Brethren were at the chapter house-this was one of the many details they had kept hidden by virtue of their distance from Hunern-but he suspected Tegusgal had more than double the numbers of warriors. In which case, a direct approach made sense. Dietrich had made no suggestions as Tegusgal had led the party across the narrow bridge spanning the sluggish river that lay to the west of Hunern.

  The bridge had been a narrow span occasioned by local herdsmen and the isolated merchant prior to the Mongols’ arrival, and as the influx began around the arena, some effort had been applied to shoring up the old pillars and replacing the more rotten planks. Once improved, the bridge became more used, which led to more wear and tear on the timbers, necessitating yet another pass at repairing it. The second time, Mongol engineers got involved; nearly overnight, the bridge doubled in width, and a small shack was erected on the Hunern side.

  Onghwe Khan knew the value in controlling the roads. While the man had a reputation for being dissolute, he was also cannily aware of the fundamental ebb and flow of humanity. Dietrich suspected his rumored boredom was nothing more than an affectation, though he never wanted to find out one way or another.

  Surrounded by mounted Mongol warriors, Dietrich and Pius galloped across the wide bridge, and the group swung north, putting the river on their right. Dietrich-with some annoyance-marveled at the speed and fluidity with which the host moved, each mount keeping pace with the others with neither thought nor order required. They slowed as they got out into the countryside, allowing themselves to be seen by any who still moved out in the open. Tegusgal was intentionally projecting power by way of visible force, Dietrich realized, to garner fear. It was not enough to destroy his enemies; it needed to be seen and left undisputed.

  Dietrich’s charger, larger than the tallest of the Mongol horses by several hands, chewed on its bit at being trapped in the center of a mass that moved slower than it liked, but Dietrich held it steady. For the time being, he was a prisoner. There was nowhere to go, and no reason to push the Mongols to ride faster.

  His and Pius’s usefulness would come to an end soon enough.

  The Mongols began to shift around him, and Dietrich found his horse being nudged toward the front of the formation. The Mongol party slipped past him like beads of water sliding off a broad leaf, and in short order, he was in front of the host. He felt like a game beast hunted for the sport of some bored nobleman in his own lands, and some of his apprehension about what was to come next drained away, leaving only the burning shame and humiliation of his position.

  He was riding to his death. His plan had been flawed from the outset, the feeble machinations of a tiny mind that could only react in fear. What did he really know of the Shield-Brethren’s location? Of their defenses and their armament? He was going to ride right into the camp of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. God would decide what happened next. He had no other option. The longer he tarried, the more obvious it would be the Mongols that he had no idea how to deliver on what he had offered them.

  When that happened, Tegusgal’s archers would fill him with arrows. The image of Burchard and Sigeberht dead in the street flashed unbidden across his thoughts, and an involuntary shudder shook his frame. He was almost as bad as Pius.

  He bent his thoughts toward the Shield-Brethren instead of dwelling on the dead. They were using an abandoned monastery, and he tried to imagine how they would apportion themselves throughout the ruins. They would need some open ground where they could pasture and exercise their horses. Would they set up an archery range? They would have to forage for food, and they had enough mouths to feed that they would have to use some of the horses as pack animals. Horses would balk at continually moving through dense undergrowth. There would be paths in the
forest, tracks made by the constant coming and going of the hunting teams. Dietrich started to pay closer attention to the gaps between the trees as the woods grew thicker around him and his Mongolian entourage.

  He tried not to think about the bow that each man carried, about how quickly he had seen them nock and shoot an arrow. The small of his back itched. Even in armor, he felt naked.

  His eye was drawn to a gap between a trio of mature oak trees. On one of the trees, he spotted a series of too-regular markings. At a distance, it would have been easy to miss the cuts, dismissing them as happenstance, but up close, he could see they were made by a knife blade. They were at the right height too for a man riding on a horse. The branches of the tree on the left side of the gap didn’t reach across the opening as they should either. There was one, curling low in the front, but behind it, there was a suspicious dearth.

  Dietrich nudged his horse toward the gap, ducking beneath the leafy screen of the foremost branch. Once past, it was easy where someone had taken a blade to other branches, cutting them back from the path. Still leaning forward, he cast his eyes across the track, noticing the confusion of marks left by numerous horses coming and going.

  Should he follow this path? It was a narrow track, wide enough for one horse only. If it led right to the Shield-Brethren chapter house, he didn’t want to be in the lead. That would only make his betrayal more evident. The Shield-Brethren would see him first-a knight of the West-and then the Mongols would come pouring out of the woods. They would all know he had led the enemy to them.

  Not that any of them are going to survive.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The Mongol party had come to a halt behind him, gathering around the tiny gap in the trees. Beneath his armor, goose bumps danced on the flesh of his chest. Expressionless faces, staring at him; eyes alight with murderous glee. Pius was near the back of the mob, his cheeks wet with tears. The priest’s lips moved, but Dietrich could not hear his words, though he could imagine the prayer the Priest was saying. Libera nos a malo…