The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  Onghwe’s smile remained undiminished, and his hooded tiger gaze flickered back and forth between the two men.

  Kim struck first. Without any warning, the Flower Knight was no longer creeping stealthily forward but was flying through the air, the tip of his spear lancing out at the Khan.

  Onghwe darted to the side, moving with the speed of a biting snake. He seized the whore by the hair, and with singular strength, hurled her in front of him. She tumbled across the bed, arms flailing.

  Kim tried to abort his strike, his features rearranging themselves into an expression of horrified shock, but the Khan’s aim was too true. Kim’s spear gored the woman through the chest, the point protruding hideously out her back.

  In a gruesome second, the Khan had neutralized Kim’s attack and rendered him weaponless. The Flower Knight’s sword lay several paces behind him. Kim dropped the spear and drew back as the Khan advanced on him, his sword flashing in quick arcs.

  Zug released the kiai-the heavenly shout. His strike came up from the floor, not as strong as the overhead strike but still quick enough. Still strong enough to split the dissolute Khan from groin to neck. The Khan would have to choose between killing Kim and dying, or evading his strike and allowing the Flower Knight to escape.

  The Khan had seen Zug fight in the arena enough times to know that attempting to block a naginata strike with a sword was tantamount to inviting death, and he opted for evasion, leaping toward Zug with astonishing speed.

  Zug anticipated Onghwe’s approach. Every sword fighter, when facing off against opponents with longer weapons, strove to get inside, to diminish the effectiveness of the long weapon. Equally, every pole-arm fighter learned techniques to keep the sword fighters at bay. Zug pulled his naginata back, slashing in the opposite direction as he closed the line.

  Onghwe, having avoiding the first attack by moving to Zug’s right and toward him, kept coming. He reversed his blade, catching Zug’s downward slice against the flat of his sword. A dangerous parry, but as Zug had not been able to gather full momentum, the stroke only pushed the Khan’s blade against his body-the sword blade shielding the Khan from the naginata’s cutting edge.

  Onghwe’s feet pounded against the floor as he rushed Zug, striking him in the middle of the forehead with the pommel of his sword.

  Zug’s world exploded into a flurry of vibrant colors. He tried to get an arm up to block another punishing blow as he reeled back, and Onghwe smashed him on the right shoulder. He stumbled against a divan, and off balance and unable to see through a rain of tears he fell, trying to turn his stumble into a roll or flip or anything that would take him away from the Khan’s sword.

  He tumbled clumsily off the other side of the divan, landing awkwardly on his left shoulder. Ignoring the pain racing up and down his arm, Zug scrambled to his feet, dragging his naginata with him.

  The Khan’s sword struck the haft of his weapon just below his right hand and sheared through the thick wood. Onghwe let out a tiny grunt as the tip of his sword hit the carpet beside Zug. He froze for an instant, his eyes glittering as he examined Zug’s position-on his knees, his arms over his head, the naginata blade a long ways off. His sword was much closer to Zug’s undefended right side; he could hit Zug sooner than Zug could get the naginata blade around.

  Zug loosened his grip, letting the haft of the naginata move loosely in his right hand, and he jerked his left hand toward his right, thrusting the butt of his weapon. Onghwe jerked his head back, and Zug only managed to land a glancing blow on the dissolute Khan’s cheek.

  Onghwe whipped his sword around, a wild one-handed swing that Zug had no choice but to throw himself forward in order to avoid. He felt the sword whip over his head, and before Onghwe could swing on him again, he scrambled away, swinging the naginata around to make the Khan cautious in his approach.

  But Onghwe wasn’t pressing the attack. During their exchange, Kim had procured another spear and now returned to the fray. The Flower Knight thrust at Khan, and Onghwe twisted himself around, momentarily putting his back to Zug. He parried, spinning his blade around Kim’s weapon and pushing it wide. He darted forward, attempting to use the same pommel smash he had used on Zug.

  Kim wasn’t about to let Onghwe get that close. He wiggled his spear, slipping it under the Khan’s elbow to raise Onghwe’s arm. He kicked, smashing his heel against the side of Onghwe’s knee. Onghwe roared with pain and retreated, cautiously testing his weight on his right leg.

  “Marvelous,” he chortled as he put some distance between the two fighters. His face was flushed, glowing with sweat, and a dark bruise was already forming on his right cheek. “I haven’t felt this alive in years.” He laughed, consumed in equal portion by feral madness and giddy euphoria.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Final Doubts

  Feronantus’s plan was simple: kill the bear, stake it out in gross parody of its rampant state, and wait for the Khagan to arrive. R?dwulf and Istvan would lie in ambush on the southern hillside, close to the rocky spur that split the main valley. The rest of the company would hide in the southern canyon until the Khagan’s party had scattered, and then they would ride into battle.

  The last half year of hard riding came down to this: a dead bear, an ambush, and one final charge.

  None of them expected to survive.

  They said good-bye to Yasper shortly after they broke camp, and then a half hour later, to R?dwulf and Istvan. With three horses in tow, Feronantus led the party into the southern forest and stopped when he reached an open glade. They tethered the horses in a line and gave them enough rope to forage among the tall grasses.

  As Feronantus, Percival, and Eleazar checked and adjusted their gear-Eleazar grousing noisily about having to fight from horseback where his enormous sword would be useless-Vera took Raphael by the hand and led him into the trees. They had all lost weight during the hard trek across the steppe, and Vera’s beauty had become even more stark and austere. Her hair was longer, and she had taken to braiding it in the Northern style. The sun and wind had darkened her skin; it was not as dark as Raphael’s, but she was not the pale ghost of a woman he had met months ago. Only her eyes remained unchanged-hard and unyielding, the same color as her maille.

  “Stop staring at me like that,” she said gently. “We knew this day was coming. We take death into our hearts when we take our oaths.”

  “Yes,” he argued, “but that doesn’t mean we have to like it.”

  She cupped Raphael’s face with her hand. “I have liked very little in this world, Raphael of Acre, and you have shown me more affection than I deserve. I am sorry-”

  He placed his hand over her mouth and shook his head. “I have said good-bye to too many friends today. I am done. No more.” She relented, and tightly pressing her hand to his, she kissed his fingers. He pulled her close, and dropping their hands, their lips met.

  She broke contact first, as he knew she would, but she didn’t let go of him. Her teeth worrying her lower lip, she rested her head against his shoulder. “By the time the Mongol horde reached Kiev, we knew they were going to besiege the city for as long as it took to break our spirits, and we swore-my sisters and I-that we would never submit. We would never, willingly, open our gates to the Mongols, and the Virgin heard our prayer. They breached Kiev’s gates and ravaged the city completely, but the walls of our citadel held. We took in too many refugees, and if the Mongols had been patient, we would have starved to death. But Batu Khan was too eager to press farther west. He thought the destruction of the city would be enough to break our spirit. But we didn’t falter. We were skjalddis. We would never surrender.

  “And then I took my sisters out of the city. I took them away from the Virgin’s protection, and the Mongols found us.” Her hand closed to a fist on his chest. “I killed my sisters as readily as if I cut their throats myself.”

  Raphael shook his head. “You can’t blame yourself. Every commander feels responsible for his troops. They would not be a good commander oth
erwise. But you can’t carry that burden. It will crush you.”

  “It won’t crush me, Raphael.” She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “My sisters guide my arm. They give me strength. They will be with me when I kill the Khagan.”

  “Vera…” He faltered. Her gaze was too guarded, too hard. His words would not be strong enough to penetrate her armor.

  She kissed him lightly. “I’m sorry, Raphael,” she whispered, her breath light on his cheek. “I wish there was more room in my heart.” Her lips brushed his cheek as she squeezed his arm, and then she was gone.

  He would have preferred an opportunity to play with the ratios of the various powders that he had found in the satchel, but Feronantus had been disinclined to let him go off and conduct explosive experiments on innocent trees. Time was limited; the resolution of their quest was upon them. He had one chance to get the mixture right.

  He would have thrown his hands up at such an impossible challenge six months ago, but as a companion to the Shield-Brethren who looked upon the impossible as a noble challenge, he had become inured to the insurmountable. Creating an explosive reagent from an untested oddment of powders, tinctures, and salts was exactly the sort of conundrum God would put before him.

  Especially after he had complained-somewhat incessantly, he was now willing to admit-about that damned Livonian stealing his horse back in Kiev. He had stumbled upon a veritable treasure hoard of alchemical ingredients in the ruined city. He had collected an entire bag of smooth stones that were nearly all the same shape and size, not too small and not too large-nearly perfect, in fact, for a balneum cineritium. The large grains of sand would have retained their heat so evenly. The idea of a portable balneum had been so tempting.

  The jugs of aqua ardens had been an unexpected blessing. The two bottles weren’t as volatile as a recipe he had made several years ago, but, as evidenced in the tunnels, the fiery water burned readily enough. The other jug could have been distilled further-he was certain he could have done it-and having several vials of purified aqua ardens would alleviate his current dilemma.

  “Attend to your mind,” he whispered to himself. The aqua ardens was gone; the treasure trove he had collected during the early days of their journey was gone. Dwelling on the materials he had lost was to engage in wistful daydreaming like an ale-addled simpleton. He had to keep his mind focused. The company was depending on him.

  They had stumbled upon the location of the bear’s cave late in the day after they had said good-bye to Cnan, and Feronantus had kept them busy, exploring the two-pronged valley, until well after moonrise. They had argued for several hours around a meager fire about the best way to entrap the Khagan. In the end, the simplest stratagem won out: let the Khagan’s party enter the valley, but don’t let it leave.

  The last part fell squarely upon Yasper’s shoulders, and shortly after sunrise, he had surveyed the rocky terrain on either side of the western entrance of the valley. An avalanche was clearly the best solution, but how to move all those rocks? After an hour of clambering about less sure-footedly than a mountain goat, he thought it was possible to bring down a number of rocks.

  However, he would need a few supplies.

  Feronantus had been loath to let him go wandering off into the forest, especially when they expected the Khagan’s hunting party late in the day. All the more reason Yasper had to find his alchemical ingredients sooner than later. Without these ingredients, he had argued, I can’t bring the hillside down. You’ll have to come up with a different plan.

  Early the following morning, Yasper, Istvan, and Raphael went scouting again with two goals in mind: finding Yasper’s alchemical ingredients and discerning the location of the Khagan’s hunting party. Consensus among the companions was that the Khagan had simply waited a day before leaving, but they needed to be sure.

  Shortly after midday they found the hunting party and Yasper found his alchemical supplies, albeit in an unexpected fashion.

  They heard a booming noise, and Yasper thought it was too singular and too close to be thunder, especially given the lack of cloud cover in the sky. Keenly aware that they were not alone in the woods, they dismounted and carefully led their horses through the trees. After the second rumbling echo, Yasper was sure the source of the sound was an alchemical explosion.

  They nearly interrupted the duel between the two Mongol hunters, and had the pair not been so intent on killing one another they would have surely spotted the trio of Westerners. Istvan had wanted to kill them both, but Raphael had held him back, and after one had dashed off and the other followed, Yasper had been able to creep into the clearing and retrieve the dropped satchel.

  He had nearly wept with joy when he opened it and examined its contents.

  By nightfall, his joy had withered to consternation. Some of the powders were foreign to him, and he had no time for practical research. He woke often during the night, shivering with a sensation nearing panic, and in the morning when the rest of the company departed for their hidden positions within the valley, he was left alone. Just Yasper and the mystery of the powders and God, who wasn’t offering any insight.

  The white crystals, sweet to the taste, were a salt of some kind. The metal shards had no function as part of the alchemical explosive. It was only after catching his finger on a rough burr and drawing blood that he had realized their purpose. They were tiny projectiles, meant to be packed in with the powders. When the incendiary device ignited, the alchemical energies released would hurl the shards in every direction.

  He shuddered, imagining the effect they would have on unarmored flesh, and then shuddered even more as he divined how the Chinese used these powders. Feeling befouled, like he had just accepted a deal with some infernal demon to allow these thoughts into his head, he laid the ingredients out in a line, seeing their arrangement in a different light.

  The dark powder tasted bitter, not unlike the calcinate that a sand bath would draw out of a cow’s urine, and the red crystals turned to blue flame when he had tossed a pinch into the campfire. He recognized the ash readily enough, though it came from a pleasantly fragrant wood.

  As he was wrestling with the ratios, the Khagan and his hunting party passed below his hiding place.

  Yasper pressed himself flat against the rocks, and with an oath, he kicked sand over his tiny fire, trying to put it out. He inched to the edge of the rock and peered down, desperately hoping no one noticed the thin line of smoke.

  He counted heads, and was taken aback when he passed forty. He figured the one on the black horse, wearing the gaudy plum-colored outfit, was Ogedei, the Khan of Khans. Yasper stifled a grin. R?dwulf will be so jealous, he thought, when he learns how close I was. He was not a very skilled bowman, but he thought he could hit the Khagan with an arrow from his position.

  As he watched, one of the honor guard-a tall muscular Mongol-gave orders to the men, splitting the group into two. More than half were to stay at the mouth of the valley. A rearguard, Yasper surmised, to ensure the bear did not accidentally escape. Little chance of that, he thought, recalling the display that Percival and R?dwulf had erected. Shooting the arrow into the bear’s chest after it had been strung up had been a masterful idea on Feronantus’s part. A taunting flourish on top of an already arrogant display of defiance. It was bound to enrage the Khagan.

  “Oh, shit!” The words hissed out of Yasper’s mouth before he could stop them. He had recognized one of the riders in the group that was continuing on with the Khagan.

  Graymane.

  There was nothing he could do but watch as the Khagan and his much smaller hunting party-including the gray-haired rider who had plagued them so incessantly during their journey-rode into valley. The twenty or so left behind milled about for a while, uncertain of the best way to prevent a charging bear from leaving the valley. After a half hour or so, they settled down. As Yasper kept his vigil, his heart continuing to pound in his chest, they fell into the same routine as bored soldiers anywhere. They ate and drank, s
haring among themselves, and eventually someone produced a bag containing some manner of marked bones. While three of them remained mounted, keeping a bored watch, the others passed the time by betting on the bones.

  Yasper still had to figure out how to make an alchemical incendiary. The guards had positioned themselves on his side of the vale, making it somewhat easier if he managed to figure out how to send a cascade of rocks down upon them. He had marked a few he thought would bring along other rocks when they tumbled down the hill, and his plan had been to dislodge them by packing a mixture into key cracks. However, in order to ignite them in the right order, he would need a long fuse, one that burned at the right speed and with the right amount of flame.

  All the vines he had found during his searches had been too full of juices-there wasn’t enough time to dry and temper them properly. He had found fuses in the satchel, but they were all short, not much longer than the distance from the tip of his longest finger to the base of his hand. Even if he tied them all together, they weren’t going to be long enough.

  He sighed and rubbed his scalp vigorously. He was running out of time. It wouldn’t take that long for the hunting party to find the dead bear. He had to act soon. Otherwise, the Khagan could still escape.

  What were the right ratios?

  He heard a distant cry, like the scream of a hawk as it dives upon its prey, but he knew it wasn’t a war cry of a predatory bird. It was a scream of pain.

  R?dwulf was shooting his arrows. The trap had been sprung.

  Muttering to himself (and to God), Yasper scooped up the various pouches of ingredients and combined them as equally as he could into two of the larger pouches. After packing in a layer of metal shards, he shoved a fuse into each and tied them as tightly as he dared. He struck his flint against the nearby rock face, scattering sparks. The first fuse hissed, and he blew on it briefly to make sure the sparks became fire. The fuse caught, flaring into a sizzling finger of blue and orange flame.