The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  Haakon noticed Gansukh and brought his hands together in the traditional greeting. Gansukh responded in kind, somewhat amused by the youth’s efforts to learn the local customs. “Hai, Haakon,” he said. “Your wound heals well?”

  “Yes, friend Gansukh,” Haakon replied. “I am a valuable cow.” His accent had gotten better.

  Gansukh couldn’t help but grin. “That you are.”

  “Knife for me next time?”

  Gansukh shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t-” He realized Haakon wasn’t speaking to him, and when he followed the Northerner’s gaze, he found a gray-haired Mongol standing a few paces behind him. In a flash, Gansukh read his history: the slight bow to his legs, the deep lines around his eyes, and the seasoned darkness of his aged skin. This man had been a horse rider his entire life.

  “I suspected he knew our tongue,” the gray-haired man said as he came abreast Gansukh.

  Bewildered, Gansukh tried to understand what had just transpired between the prisoner and the gray-haired rider. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Alchiq,” the rider said. “I was this one’s age when Genghis Khan brought the clans together. I have served the empire ever since.” He turned his attention to Gansukh. “You were at Kozelsk,” he said, “with Batu Khan.”

  “I may have been,” Gansukh said.

  Alchiq offered him a smile that didn’t go all the way to his eyes. “You were. You opened the gates so that the Khan’s army could take their revenge for their fallen brothers.”

  Gansukh flinched. “You must be mistaken,” he said. “I was just a scout. I never…”

  Haakon was staring intently at him, studying Gansukh’s face. Gansukh swallowed heavily and pushed away the memories of Kozelsk that were threatening to surface and changed the subject. “You gave the knife to the Kitayan.”

  Alchiq nodded. “I did.” He too was watching Gansukh closely, watching for some reaction in Gansukh’s eyes to his admission.

  “Why?”

  “To see how well this one could fight. To see what he would do if he was given an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity for what?”

  “The Torguud captain-Namkhai-is a very large man,” Alchiq said. He held up his fist, showing it to Haakon. “He has a big hand, yes?”

  Haakon raised a hand and touched his bruised cheek. “Big hand,” he echoed.

  Alchiq walked up to the cage, his hand still clenched in a fist. “I know you, Skjaldbr??ur.” He opened his hand and slapped the bars of the cage, grinning at Haakon’s reaction.

  Alchiq gestured for Gansukh to follow him, and when Gansukh opened his mouth to ask a question, Alchiq shook his head. The gray-haired man waited until they had passed the last cage before he spoke. “The boy listens too intently,” he said by way of explanation. “He spies on us from his cage.”

  “That word you said. Skold-”

  “Skjaldbr??ur,” Alchiq corrected.

  “What does it mean?”

  “How long did Kozelsk hold Batu Khan at bay?” Alchiq asked, seeming to not hear Gansukh’s question. “Seven weeks?”

  “Something like that,” Gansukh replied, somewhat flustered by the change in topic. “I don’t recall exactly.”

  “And how many experienced fighters did that city have? Once the gates were open, how many hardened warriors did we find?” He poked Gansukh in the chest. “How many did you kill?”

  Gansukh rolled his tongue around his mouth. “A handful,” he lied.

  Alchiq pursed his lips. “A handful? Batu let his army raze the city so that the West would know his anger at being denied, but the damage was done. There was a tiny garrison in that city, and the rest were old men, women, and children. They held off the entire might of the Khagan’s army for nearly two moons. Batu sent word back to Karakorum that he needed more men, that the West was so bountiful that his army could not carry all the wealth they were plundering. But that wasn’t the truth, was it? The armies of the empire had gotten soft. They had become accustomed to their enemies running in fear when they saw the banners of the Mongol Empire. Subutai recognized the danger, but Batu did not. The other Khans did not.” Alchiq jerked his head in the direction of Haakon’s cage. “There are others like him. Other Skjaldbr??ur. They will not yield to us. They will never stop fighting us.”

  “You’ve fought them,” Gansukh said, realizing Alchiq had answered his previous question in a roundabout way.

  Alchiq nodded. “Ten of them took on an entire jaghun. They lost one man. I killed him. I snuck up on him and broke him when he was collecting water.” He let out a short laugh that was void of any humor. “And then I ran.”

  “There is no shame in that,” Gansukh said.

  “I was not seeking your approval, boy.” Alchiq poked Gansukh in the chest again.

  Gansukh caught Alchiq’s finger and pushed his hand away. “I wasn’t offering any,” he snapped.

  Alchiq brayed with laughter, and he slapped Gansukh with good humor on the arm. “Try not to confuse your enemies with your friends, young pony,” he said. “I spent many years being angry at the wrong people, and now those years are gone. What do I have to show for it?”

  Gansukh recalled the disarray in his ger, and his irritation subsided. “My apologies, venerable goat,” he said, his tone only slightly mocking.

  “The Khagan begins his hunt in the morning,” Alchiq said. “You and I will be joining him. We must be wary of being hunted ourselves.”

  “Of course,” Gansukh nodded. “It would be an honor to join you.” Internally, his guts tightened. Hunted. If he hadn’t dealt with Munokhoi by then, he would be leaving Lian unprotected. He had to warn her.

  It was only some time later that he realized Alchiq had been talking about something else entirely.

  I will kill them both-pony and goat.

  Munokhoi sat cross-legged in his ger, calmly chewing on a slice of salted meat. His mind was restless, buzzing with plans and ideas. In a metal brazier, a tiny flame danced, the only illumination in his ger. Shadows danced all around, a capering festival of spooky figures that moved in accordance with the shivering delight Munokhoi felt inside.

  He had shadowed Gansukh all day, and other than the single arrow fired during the archery contest had not revealed his presence. He had shoved his fist in his mouth to stop from giggling aloud when Gansukh had finally gone back to his wrecked ger. Oh, how satisfying it had been to drink dry all of Gansukh’s skins and then slice them with his knife. And then, a half hour later, the supreme pleasure at passing that same liquid there. I have stolen nothing, he had thought as he pissed all over the sleeping furs and the ruined clothing.

  Listening to the gray-haired fool and Gansukh talk by the prisoners’ cages, it had been difficult to contain his rage when he learned that the old man Alchiq had given the Kitayan the knife! After the first fight, Munokhoi thought Gansukh might stoop to some dangerous subterfuge in an effort to embarrass him and he had watched for some sign that such a plan was in the making, but he hadn’t suspected that Gansukh might have an accomplice. The old man had a foxlike cunning, and giving a blade to a prisoner was a very dangerous ploy. Their plan could have gone awry quite easily, but they had gotten lucky instead.

  Their luck would end tomorrow. They were both going on the hunt with the Khagan. There would be time enough to take care of everything while in the woods, and then his honor would be restored. The Khagan would see how bad a decision it had been to promote that loud-mouthed wrestler. The Khagan would take him back.

  Tomorrow, Munokhoi thought, gleefully. I will kill them both tomorrow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  In the Enemy’s Camp

  At the Rose Knight chapter house, Tegusgal could not help but laugh when the sniveling Livonian worm bolted. Where did he think he was going? Did he actually think his horse was fast enough to outrun his Mongol hunters? Tegusgal shook his head as the Livonian Heermeister fled the chapter house grounds, and he gave some thought to letting the man g
o so as to sweeten the eventual hunt. He eyed his men, as some of them started launching arrows after the fleeing knight, and he sighed. They were restless, tense, and the sport would improve their morale. He whistled, giving them the freedom to chase after the foolish Heermeister.

  Yipping like excited hounds, his men drove their horses into the woods.

  Tegusgal fingered the hilt of his dagger, eying the quaking priest who remained. “Please, please,” the man begged as Tegusgal kneed his horse. “Spare my life, and God will reward you.”

  “I do not believe in your god,” Tegusgal reminded him as he drew abreast.

  The priest whimpered, and his horse snorted and shook itself as the man’s bladder let go. Tegusgal wrinkled his nose at the man’s shameful terror, and with a casual swipe of his knife, he silenced the priest.

  Eyes bulging, the priest tried to stop the blood from coursing out of the wound in his neck, covering his frock and staining the wooden cross he wore. Tegusgal shoved him, and arms flailing, he fell off his horse.

  Tegusgal wiped his knife off on the blanket beneath the priest’s saddle, and then slapped the riderless horse on the rump. It galloped off, assuredly delighted to be rid of its stinking, whimpering rider. He sheathed his knife and spurred his horse after his men, leaving the dying priest and the empty chapter house behind.

  His mare thundered through the forest in pursuit of his men and their quarry. The stupid fool of a knight didn’t understand that by running, he was summoning the greatest hunters in the world to give chase. Every Mongol warrior knew how to chase prey on horseback, how to outlast it, and how to bring it down once it had worn itself out. The Heermeister was about to discover how pointless it was to try to outrun the Mongol hunt.

  He burst out of the forest, on the heels of his hunters, who had fanned out in a broad arc across the fields. The Heermeister’s horse was large and strong, and on open ground, it could run faster than Mongol ponies. But Tegusgal knew it didn’t have the same stamina. Eventually it would falter, and his men would close the distance. Even now, some of his faster riders were coming into bow range.

  The chase wasn’t going to last much longer. In fact, they would be on the Heermeister before he reached the bridge.

  Tegusgal frowned. There was smoke, a black plume rising into the late afternoon sky. He slapped his horse with his reins, urging it to run faster, and as he crested the last rise before the bridge to Hunern, he saw the source of the smoke.

  There were barrels on the bridge, spewing columns of thick smoke. The Heermeister was off his horse, doing something with one of the barrels. He looked like he was trying to tug it into position.

  Tegusgal’s men hadn’t slowed down. They saw the barrels too, and the struggling figure of the foolish knight. Some of his hunters were already standing in their saddles, firing arrows at the knight, trying to stop him from finishing his task.

  Tegusgal shook his head. That wasn’t right. The knight hadn’t put the barrels there. He hadn’t the time. He was trying to move them aside so that he could get his horse across the bridge. He was still trying to flee. Who put the barrels there? Tegusgal wondered. And why?

  He got his answer when the ground started to shake with the thunder of heavy hooves. From the wood on his right, a host emerged, sunlight gleaming off naked steel and polished helms. The riders-sitting astride tall chargers, Western battle steeds-wore white and black; their shields were covered with red and white crosses. His rallying call was lost beneath the many-throated battle cry of the attacking Western knights.

  The ambush was sprung, and Tegusgal’s hunters were unprepared for the massed charge of the Templars and Hospitallers. The host slammed into the flank of his men, scattering riders. Tegusgal’s men were disorganized, caught between the knights’ charge and the river. His numbers and the fabled mobility of the Mongol horse rider meant nothing in the face of this crushing assault. Tegusgal yanked his horse’s head away from the pitched battle. “Fall back to the river,” he shouted as he beat his heels against his horse’s barrel. No one heard him in the pandemonium of battle. Steel clashed on steel. Men shrieked. Horses screamed. Arrows hummed through the air.

  His men were all going to die. This was a rout. He had to escape. He had to warn Onghwe Khan. His worst fear was being realized: the knights of Hunern were fighting back.

  The ululating war cry of the Shield-Brethren rippled through the air like the charge before a lightning strike as the knights of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae clashed with Mongol attackers bent on retaking the gate of their compound. In the front rank of the Shield-Brethren host, Rutger’s sword stroke crashed through a Mongol’s guard, and the blade cut the Mongol from neck to midchest. The man gurgled, clutching at Rutger’s sword as the quartermaster pulled it free, and then he crumpled to the blood-stained ground. Rutger checked the man on his right, making sure he wasn’t in danger of being overrun by his opponent, and then he pivoted to his left, swinging his sword at an overeager Mongol who raised his curved sword over his head. He caught the Mongol in the back-under the armpits, where the armor was weak-and his sword bit deep into the man’s body.

  Rutger was exultant. Gathered around him were his brothers, their energy a tangible force weaving them all together into a single fearsome multiarmed monster. They breathed as one; they thrust, parried, and retaliated as one fighter. Each man protected the man next to him, and none felt any pain or exhaustion or fear.

  They stood in the narrow throat of the gate, surrounded by the bloody corpses of their enemies. A gleaming ring of swords defended the entryway, rising and falling and dancing left and right, completely synchronous in their movement. Overhead, Shield-Brethren archers in the guard towers harried the stragglers of the Mongol force, making men stumble and flinch as the men next to them would suddenly slip and fall and not get back up.

  Eventually the Mongols retreated, falling back to their tents to lick their wounds, count their dead, and consider their next assault. Rutger lowered his arm, the intense pain in his hands finally making itself heard in his brain. He nearly dropped his sword-Andreas’s sword-but he fought the pain and kept his grip tight. I have faced worse, he counseled himself. I still stand. He glanced up and down the line, and saw that it remained intact. None of the Shield-Brethren had fallen, but in so quick a look there was no time to tell how much of the blood that covered every man was that of the enemy. Some wounds, he knew, would not be felt until the battle lust eased.

  “Check your weapons and your armor,” he croaked. “Thank the Virgin for your fortune.” He glanced toward the Mongol tents. “And get ready for them to come again.”

  They only had to hold the gate until the others arrived, and then they could truly take the battle to the Khan.

  As the spear-wielding Mongols approached, Styg pivoted on his left foot, putting one of the Mongol tents at his back. He was outnumbered-fighting against three men who wielded weapons that could keep his sword at bay-but he would not die without taking as many of them with him as possible. He may not be a full knight initiate of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae, but he fought for the Virgin nonetheless. His death would be costly for his foes.

  During the training sessions at the chapter house, Styg had seen Andreas take on multiple initiates numerous times. Both Feronantus and Taran had drilled in all the young fighters the same fundamental battlefield maxim. More men meant more opportunities for confusion. A single fighter had a distinct advantage: everyone else was an enemy. He didn’t have to worry about where his allies stood or what they were planning.

  The middle one attacked first. He was the tallest of the trio, and his reach was longest. Styg sent a silent prayer to the Virgin and lunged toward his attacker. He swept his longsword from right to left, smashing the spear aside with the flat of his blade, which fouled the approach of the Mongol on the left. Styg flicked his sword back, extending his arm as far as he could-much farther than he would if he were facing another swordsman-and his blade sliced across the face of the Mongol on the
right, splitting the man’s cheeks and severing the tip of his nose.

  The spear he’d knocked aside came back at him as its wielder attempted to recover, a reverse of the arc on which he had sent it. The predictable motion of a fighter’s reflex. Styg had been expecting such a response, and as the weapon swung toward him, he let go of his sword with his left hand and tried to grab the shaft of the spear. The Mongol reacted quickly, yanking his spear back and out of Styg’s reach.

  Suddenly Styg was painfully aware that the Mongol whose face he had wrecked was still standing.

  The Mongol screamed, his face a horrific mask of blood, as he yanked a dagger free of his sash and lunged at Styg. The blade sliced through Styg’s surcoat, dragging across the maille underneath, and before the Mongol could slash him again, Styg grabbed the Mongol’s armor and pulled the man to him. He smashed his head down, helmet striking the Mongol’s already ruined face with a satisfying crunch, and then shoved the man away. Stay down, was his fleeting thought.

  There was little time for much more thought than that. He was out of position, and as he tried to bring his sword up, one of the other two Mongols slammed into him. His grip slackened on his sword as he and the Mongol stumbled back against one of the nearby tents. He wasted no time lamenting the loss of his sword, twisting in the Mongol’s grip in an effort to grapple with the other man. The Mongol growled, showing his teeth, and he shook Styg like a child’s doll. He hauled Styg off the resilient tent and threw him to the ground. Styg tried to roll, but he couldn’t get his hands in front of him in time, and he sprawled awkwardly on the ground.

  He spotted his sword and tried to scramble toward it, and got a boot kick in the belly for his efforts. Maille was good protection against sharp weapons, but it did little to diminish the impact of such bludgeoning force; Styg curled up as he felt his stomach try to hurl itself out of his throat.