The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  Namkhai slammed into Ogedei, shoving him against his horse. Ogedei’s face was smashed against the horse’s flank, and his exclamation of surprise turned into a muffled sputter through a mouthful of horsehide. Ogedei heard the meaty thunk of another arrow hitting flesh and Namkhai grunted, and then the Torguud captain hauled him down to the ground.

  One of the long arrows had gone through Namkhai’s left shoulder, and as soon as the Khagan was down on the ground, Namkhai reached over his shoulder and, gritting his teeth, snapped off the back half of the arrow.

  The hunting party was in complete disarray. The Darkhat and the shaman were the only ones who had remained on their horses when they had reached the end of the valley. The rest of the party had dismounted while Alchiq and Gansukh had scrambled up the slope to investigate the entrance of the Great Bear’s cave. From the ground, Ogedei could only see a confusion of legs-of both men and horses-as the hidden archer continued to rain death down upon them.

  “Spread out,” Namkhai shouted at the men. “Get to cover and find those archers!”

  Archers? he thought dumbly, imagining a host of giants hurling these long arrows at the hunting party. He groveled on the ground, his legs shaking, and he would have stayed where he was, clutching the dry earth, if his horse hadn’t screamed and reared.

  A shorter arrow stuck out from the animal’s neck, and as it staggered and swayed toward him, he was forced to move. The horse collapsed on its side, nearly pinning Namkhai to the ground. Ogedei froze for a moment, blinking in shock at the sight of the long arrow that suddenly sprouted from the ground beside his outstretched leg, and then Namkhai grabbed his sleeve unceremoniously and shoved him in the direction of a cluster of leafy bushes.

  Ogedei scrambled as fast as he could on his hands and knees. He threw himself around the edge of the bushes, clawing at the dirt and dragging his legs quickly to reach shelter. There were two men already hiding behind the screen of bushes, and as Ogedei crawled behind them, one of them cried out and fell on his ass. A long-shafted arrow stuck out of his gut, and he whimpered pitifully as he tried to gather his courage to touch it.

  A pair of Darkhat riders passed behind his position, guiding their horses with their legs as they fired their bows. Ogedei didn’t dare peek out to see what they were shooting at; he was relieved they were fighting back. Someone was shouting his name, but he couldn’t make out who it was with all the chaotic noise from the men and the horses.

  “It hurts. I can’t feel my legs.” The wounded man tugged at his sleeve. “My Khan,” he moaned. “Help me.” There was a lot of blood, and as the wounded man struggled to sit up, Ogedei spotted more blood on the ground beneath him. The arrow had gone completely through the man’s body.

  The other man tried to shush the wounded one, and his entreaties were cut short. The leaves of the bushes shivered, and the man jerked to the side, toppling into Ogedei. He writhed and wailed, and Ogedei took one look and shoved him away in horror.

  The arrow had passed through the man’s face, from one side to the other. He couldn’t open his mouth very far, and his cries quickly became a choking gurgle as his mouth and throat filled up with blood.

  The bushes offered no shelter against the long arrows. Ogedei might as well be standing in the middle of an open field.

  They crouched behind the crucified bear, able to see the devastation wreaked by the long arrows below and still scan for the location from which the mysterious archer was shooting. Trying to track the arrows, Gansukh watched as the assassin-with deadly accuracy-slew three men. The Khagan was nearly hit several times before he managed to scramble into shelter, and each time, Gansukh felt his heart leap into his mouth.

  “There,” Alchiq said, pointing to a clutch of boulders on the southern hillside.

  Gansukh squinted at the rocks, trying to ascertain the distance. “That’s too far-” he started. His argument was cut short as he saw movement behind the rocks. A man stood, his bowstring drawn back to his ear. He loosed his arrow and vanished again. Gansukh tried to make sense of what he had seen: the bow had been nearly as tall as the man.

  The arrow arced across the valley, seeming to gain speed as it plummeted toward the ground. It flashed through the branches of the bushes sheltering the Khagan and two other men, and Gansukh winced as he saw the arrow spear one of the men in the gut.

  “We have to get closer,” Alchiq snapped. “Otherwise we are all dead.” He darted out from behind the bear, scrambling across the rocky terrain with the agility of a mountain goat.

  Gansukh followed, and the pair leap-frogged each other along the rounded scope of the hill. Cover was sparse, and Gansukh felt widely exposed each time he paused behind the trunk of an isolated tree. Most of them grew at an angle on the slope, and if he stood upright, his lower body was exposed; if he crouched, his head stuck out.

  Finally, they reached a range that seemed possible for their smaller bows, and Alchiq let loose the first arrow as Gansukh scrambled past him to a flat-topped boulder that seemed like a good shooting position. Alchiq’s arrow skipped off the top of the largest of the three rocks they thought concealed the archers.

  Gansukh peeked over the top of his rock, and he saw two heads briefly pop up. One of the pair was on the far side of the trio of boulders. That one had the shorter bow, not much larger than his and Alchiq’s, and he shifted his aim toward their positions. The first arrow overshot Gansukh’s position, ricocheting off a rock behind him with a brittle snap.

  Gansukh stood, pulling his bowstring back and loosing his arrow in a smooth motion. He returned to his crouch, his eyes level with the top of the rock. His arrow vanished into the dark cleft between two of the rocks. Ducking down, he slid a handful of arrows out his quiver and balanced them on a nearby rock. Close at hand, easy to grab; he could stand, shoot, crouch, and ready another arrow without taking his attention off his target. Glancing back at Alchiq, he exhaled heavily, blowing out his cheeks.

  As soon as he saw Alchiq stand and shoot an arrow, he did the same. He hesitated a split second, watching the flight of both arrows, trying to discern some meaning to the spatter of shadows behind the rocks. As he heard Alchiq move behind him, he shot three more arrows in quick succession.

  Alchiq slammed into the rock beside him, grunted from the impact. “They’re fools,” he hissed, leaning to his left and peering down at the valley floor. “Ride!” he screamed, startling Gansukh. “Get the Khagan away from here.” Muttering under his breath, he scooted around on his ass until he could peer over the top of their cover. He ducked back down almost immediately and Gansukh heard the wooden rattle of an arrow bouncing off the top of the rock. “The archer isn’t trying to hit the Khagan,” he said to Gansukh, jerking a thumb toward the valley. “He had his shot. Now he’s just slowing them down.”

  As Gansukh examined the chaos below, he saw a Darkhat horse take an arrow in the chest and stumble, throwing its rider. He counted bodies, and got the same number of horses as men. “There’s another group,” he said, divining the same strategy that Alchiq was seeing. “On horseback most likely.”

  Alchiq nodded. “He’s got a longer range than us, but it means nothing when your targets are all scrambling for cover. His first two arrows were his only real chance at assassinating the Khagan.” He gestured down at the scattered bodies. “This is sowing confusion. It is a tactic they do well. It suggests they are outnumbered. They want us to not think about how many of them there are, and where they are located. They want us running in blind fear.”

  “Back up the valley,” Gansukh said. “Right into an ambush.”

  Alchiq rolled over and peered out beyond the far edge of their cover. “Where are the Torguud guards?” he wondered. “How far back did we leave them?”

  As if in response, a booming echo rolled down the valley. “Chinese powder,” Alchiq spat angrily.

  Gansukh had recognized the sound too. “Munokhoi had one,” he said. “A hand cannon. He got it from the raiders who attacked our caravan shortly after
we left Karakorum. He had it with him when…” He tried to remember where he had last seen it. There had been a satchel that the ex-Torguud captain had dropped…

  “It’s a signal,” Alchiq said. “Get the Khagan!” he shouted again, trying to catch the attention of the men below. “Now their real ambush will be sprung,” he snarled.

  Gansukh understood his frustration. They were trapped on the hillside, unable to aid the Khagan. An idea occurred to him and he tapped Alchiq on the shoulder. “Up,” he said. “If we can’t go down, let’s go up. Get above the archers.”

  Alchiq gave Gansukh a nasty smile. “Flush them out,” he said, nodding.

  An odd serenity came over Master Chucai as the archers on the hillside started killing the Khagan’s hunting party. His qi was not agitated by the sudden and violent death being visited upon the men around him; instead he felt a placid calmness descend upon him.

  Until he was turned as an arrow creased his jaw and punched through the tangle of his beard. He gasped as the world came rushing back: a tumult of sound making his ears ring, the rich scent of flesh blood, the texture of leather and horn under his hands as he grabbed his saddle and hauled himself onto his horse.

  Behind him, the shaman cowered on his pony, his hands over his ears. The tiny man babbled, a string of prayers and magical cantrips meant to protect him from flying demons. Chucai leaned over and shoved the shaman out of his saddle; he grabbed the reins and led the pony as he kicked his horse into motion.

  A Darkhat rider passed him, going in the opposite direction. The man loosed an arrow past his head, drew another from his quiver, and aimed without bothering to notice that he had nearly put an arrow into Chucai’s eye.

  Chucai understood the man’s focus, and he was glad that someone was fighting back. It would make getting the Khagan to safety easier.

  He swung around a cluster of bushes and spotted the Khagan lying on the ground next to two dying men. Both were begging the Khagan for mercy, and Ogedei was trying to back away from them while still maintaining as small a profile as possible against the ground.

  “Ogedei,” Chucai shouted. He shook the pony’s reins at the Khagan. “A steed, my Khan.”

  Ogedei looked around wildly at the sound of Chucai’s voice, and he slowly focused on the pair of horses. “You… you want me to ride that?” he sputtered.

  Chucai shook the reins at the addled Khagan. “Decide quickly,” he snapped. “Do you want to be the Khan who was too proud to ride a pony and who died miserably in the woods? Or…?”

  Another arrow punched through the brush, and silenced the cries of the gut-shot man. The other one, the man with the arrow through his face, shrieked and clawed at Ogedei’s boot, begging to be rescued.

  Ogedei scrambled to his feet and snatched the offered reins from Chucai’s hands. He clambered onto the pony, his legs nearly touching the ground, and hunching over the small animal’s neck he smacked it fiercely on the ears. It bolted, darting toward the other end of the valley, and Chucai spurred his own steed after the galloping pony.

  He had to guide the empire still. He had to make sure it was going the right direction.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  The Big Boss

  As Rutger fought his way through the crowd toward Ashiq Temur, he eyed the man’s cudgel warily. The simplest weapons were often times the most effective, and Rutger knew all too well that a solid blow from the big Mongol’s weapon would shatter bone and pulp his flesh. Maks’s crushed face was the only reminder he needed of the weapon’s power. As he broke through the mob, he saw that the cudgel was more than a shaped piece of hardwood. Beneath the blood spatter and gore clinging to it, he could see the glint of metal. Heavy and slow, he thought, I must be quick.

  He swung his sword, and Ashiq Temur saw him coming and raised his club to block Rutger’s attack. Their weapons clashed, and Rutger’s blade bit into the wood of the cudgel. The Mongol commander grinned, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth, as he twisted his arm down. Rutger couldn’t get his blade free in time, and his arms were yanked to his left. Ashiq Temur stepped closer, movement that wasn’t very smart if he was planning on hitting Rutger with his cudgel, but Rutger knew the big man had other plans in mind. He wanted to grapple.

  Rutger stepped in too. He let go of his sword with his left hand, made a fist, and drove forward with all his might. Unlike the Mongol, his hand was covered with steel plates, and his armored fist struck Ashiq Temur square in the nose. The Mongol’s head snapped back and a bright flower of blood burst across his face.

  Rutger wasn’t sure who screamed louder-he or the Mongol. Even with the protection of his gauntlets, something snapped inside his hand when he hit Ashiq Temur’s face.

  Rutger felt his sword come free of the cudgel, and he darted to Ashiq Temur’s left. He slid behind the Mongol’s back and raised his blade so that he could grip the steel with his damaged left hand. Even though his grip felt imperfect-one of his fingers was not cooperating as it should-he yanked the sword toward him, slamming the blade against his enemy’s throat. He twisted his hips violently.

  On a smaller man the technique would have slit the man’s throat and most likely snapped his neck, but Rutger felt the blade rasp off metal and leather. Ashiq Temur was wearing neck protection and all he had done was attach himself to the bigger man’s back like an enraged monkey.

  Ashiq Temur dropped his weight and rotated his hips, and Rutger tried to hang on as he was wrenched around like a rag doll. The big Mongol flexed his shoulders, broadening his back, and his left elbow snapped back, driving into the aged quartermaster’s gut.

  Rutger knew the elbow was coming. He released his grip on his blade, taking the Mongol’s strike against his chest. It knocked him back, and as Ashiq Temur whirled around, Rutger turned the stagger into a roll and the roll into a retreat. The ground shook as the cudgel hammered into the spot where he had been standing a moment earlier.

  His spine popping, Rutger came up in a crouch. His chest was tight-not from the Mongol’s blow, but from his overworked lungs-and his left hand burned as if he had been squeezing hot coals. He stayed low, his sword resting on the ground in front of him as he struggled to catch his breath.

  Ashiq Temur towered over Rutger as he raised his massive cudgel for another ground-shaking blow. His mouth yawned open, braying a wordless battle cry, and the skull-shattering club arced down, eclipsing the late afternoon sun.

  No, the thought flashed through Rutger’s head, I will not die today.

  He was fighting with Andreas’s longsword. He would not let the weapon be lost on the battlefield. He would not let Andreas who had fallen before, or Maks or any of the other Shield-Brethren who had fallen today, go unremembered. He would not falter.

  Rutger surged to his right, sweeping Andreas’s longsword up into the path of Ashiq Temur’s descending swing. He felt the blade strike flesh, jarring his hands. Shards of pain blasted through his left wrist and up his arm. The cudgel hit the ground and bounced to his left. Ashiq Temur stared, shock and surprise crumbling the corners of his wide-open mouth. Rutger wasted no time, and snapped his sword up, the tip of his blade slicing just above the leather collar wrapped around Ashiq Temur’s neck. The Mongol commander groaned, a jet of dark blood spurting from his throat, and when he raised his arms to try and stop the flow his eyes widened.

  Rutger’s first cut had severed both of his arms, just above the wrist.

  Ashiq Temur collapsed, sprawling on ground slippery with his blood. He died, open eyes staring at his severed hands, still clutching the heavy club.

  Rutger turned away from the dead man, shutting him out of his mind. Exulting in the death of an enemy was both a waste of precious time and beneath the dignity of the Shield-Brethren. Every combatant carried with him the power of life and death; every breath was a blessing from the Virgin, and to be the one who continued to draw breath after battle was a testament to skill and training.

  He couldn’t tell which side was winning; the battle was still balan
ced on a knife’s edge. Shield-Brethren and Livonian fought side by side against Mongol warriors. As one clump of combatants splintered apart, another group clashed. All the men fought with the same determination, the same zeal, trying to break the morale of their nemeses. The side that lost its momentum first would lose the field.

  “Deus Vult!” The cry carried over the din of battle like a horn resonating out of a mountainous canyon. The cry came from many throats, shouting in perfect unison, and while the echoes of the cry were still reverberating, the ground started to shake with the thunderous approach of a mounted host.

  His arm aching, Rutger raised Andreas’s sword over his head. “Alalazu!” he cried, though his voice was so ragged that he doubted anyone heard him.

  More horses came, seemingly everywhere at once, bristling with spears and swords and flails. The Mongols wavered, trembling like a field of reeds in the path of an angry wind, and then, as their companions around them started dying, they broke and ran.

  The Templars and the Hospitallers had come.

  With a quick flick of his eyes, Zug checked on Kim’s reaction to Onghwe’s revelation. The Flower Knight was staring at the dissolute Khan with an odd expression on his face. What was Kim thinking? Zug wondered. As if he had heard Zug’s question, Kim turned and looked at him. The Flower Knight shrugged slightly, tossed his sword aside, and picked up one of the guards’ discarded spears.

  The tent was silent but for the whimpering of the whore, huddled on the platform. Zug and Kim moved noiselessly across the rugs, slowly closing the distance to their nemesis. The young Rose Knight hung back, clearly intending to guard the entrance against any other guards who might try to rescue the Khan, and Zug quickly put the boy out of his mind.