The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  The Mongols rose together, and for a second he hesitated, torn between targets. Letting a blasphemous curse slip, he loosed his arrow, aiming for the gray-haired bastard who had dogged them endlessly, and then he tried to move back to the protection of the rock.

  He made it, but something slammed into his right hip and he leaned back against the stone, teeth clenched against the ribbon of fire running up his side.

  A Mongol arrow jutted out of his hip, and when he moved, it moved too. It had pierced the flat bone, and would be hard to get out.

  “Istvan,” he snarled, looking around for the Hungarian. The other man wasn’t there, and R?dwulf wasted a few precious seconds wondering where he had gone. Had he fled? Had he been hit as well and tumbled down the hillside?

  It doesn’t matter, he told himself, returning his attention to the arrow in his hip. He had to get it out. It was going to interfere with his shooting. He gripped the shaft, and a fresh wave of pain slammed through his body. Break it off, he commanded his hands. There isn’t time to pull it out.

  With a savage chop of his hand, he snapped the shaft of the arrow off, and the resulting pain brought tears to his eyes. He threw his head back against the rock, gasping for breath, straining against the vibrant colors that threatened to block his vision. The pain ebbed, and he could move his hip now without debilitating agony.

  He reached for his bow, which had slipped to the ground next to the rocks. Bending was difficult, but he managed to hook his fingers around the horn end of the bow and tug it toward him. Just as he was maneuvering himself back upright, he heard the crunching noise of a boot against loose rock.

  Alchiq stood above him, not ten paces away. His bow was drawn and the tip of the arrow was pointed at R?dwulf’s heart.

  The tall Englishman didn’t flinch as the gray-haired Mongol released his arrow. It flew straight and true, and he heard it hit its target. So this is what it feels like… and then all sense and meaning passed.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  The Guan Do

  The battle had left the field near the gate, and Rutger slowly made his way toward the distant peaks of the Khan’s pavilion. His heart was alternating between racing and standing still, and he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. The index finger of his left hand refused to bend, and he tore a long strip of cloth off the shirt of a dead Mongol. He couldn’t get his gauntlet off, not by himself, and it would probably have to be cut free of his hand. In the meantime, all he could do was immobilize the finger as much as possible to prevent the pain from being too unbearable. He wound the cloth tightly around his hand, clenching his teeth against bursts of pain that made his hand twitch.

  A pair of chargers emerged from the smoke on his right, sweeping across the field. When the riders spotted Rutger, they changed their course, heading toward him. They wore the white and black, respectively, of the Templar and Hospitaller Orders, and as they reined their animals to a stop, Rutger recognized the two Masters. “The enemy has been broken,” Emmeran called out in way of greeting. No amount of dirt and blood could completely obscure the pleased expression on his florid face. He brought his horse close to Rutger and leaned over.

  Rutger took the extended hand with his left, and Emmeran had the grace to offer a compassionate nod when he caught sight of the dirty cloth wrapped around Rutger’s right hand. There was a long bloody smear down the left side of Leuthere’s surcoat, and based on the tiny rip in the white cloth, Rutger surmised the granite-faced Templar had taken an arrow to the ribs.

  “They’re in a panic,” Leuthere said, “nothing more than a rabble. There is no organization to them, and unhorsed…” He shrugged, as if the fight between an armored knight and a Mongol on foot was no contest worth mentioning.

  “What of Onghwe, their Khan?” Rutger asked. “Is he dead?” He waved his bandaged hand in the direction he had been heading.

  Emmeran’s face lost some of its enthusiasm. “Those of the enemy who still have spirit left have fallen back to protect their master, but they will not withstand our assault for long,” he said.

  “But has anyone seen him?” Rutger pressed. “Has anyone confirmed that Onghwe is even in his pavilion? If he senses the battle goes against him, he will flee. Have we accounted for all of his commanders? If any of them still live, they could be providing a cover for the Khan’s escape.”

  Emmeran and Leuthere exchanged a quick glance, and Rutger felt an icy hand clutch his chest. “Who?” he demanded.

  Leuthere shook his head angrily and jerked his horse’s head around. The Templar master galloped off, leaving Emmeran to answer Rutger’s question.

  “The commander of the party who went to your chapter house,” Emmeran explained. “We did not find his body among those at the bridge. We suspect he made it across the river.”

  “Where is he?” Rutger shouted, even as he realized the Hospitaller did not know the answer. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If the Khan escaped and managed to flee back to the main Mongolian army at Mohi, he would return with a host many times larger than the force he had commanded at Hunern. The people of Hunern could flee, but that would only exacerbate Onghwe’s rage, and Rutger knew the Khan would pillage and burn everything until his bloodlust was satisfied.

  Breaking the Mongol grip on Hunern was an impossible feat-one so very nearly in their grasp-but without the death of Onghwe, their efforts would amount to little more than waking a slumbering bear.

  They might win the day, but Christendom would only be even more imperiled by their actions.

  “My men are scouring the camp,” Emmeran said. “There is no way out but through the main gate. Even if some of the Mongols manage to escape, we will have weeks to hunt them down.” The Hospitaller shook his head, a grim smile on his lips. “But the Khan will not escape.”

  Rutger’s chest tightened, and his throat worked heavily. “I wish I shared your faith, Master Emmeran,” he wheezed. “But I have seen too many battles that were thought won-” An icy lance of pain ripped through his upper chest, and he staggered. He tried to draw a breath, but his lungs refused to work.

  “Master Rutger…” Emmeran began.

  Rutger stared at his left arm. His entire body felt cold, except for his arm, which burned with such heat that he thought it would burst into flame. His legs quivered and he fell to his knees. Streaks of white light flashed across his field of vision. He stared up at the Hospitaller, trying to make sense of the shadows moving across the man’s face.

  A white light bloomed behind Emmeran and his horse, and Rutger blinked, tears starting in the corners of his eyes. “No,” he croaked with the last breath in his throat. It can’t be. Don’t take me, he pleaded. I am not ready.

  The light erupted, an explosion of thousands of white petals flying outward like a snowstorm falling upward, soft, downy flakes rising up to Heaven. In the center of the light, Rutger saw entwined branches and-

  The exhausted heart of Tyrshammar’s quartermaster finally stopped.

  Onghwe broke the momentary respite in the duel by throwing his sword at Zug. With a shout, Kim dashed forward, but the Khan fled, dashing back toward his enormous platform of pillows and furs.

  Zug twisted his body, evading the well-thrown blade, though the tip of the weapon raked across his right ear. Blood began to flow, and tiny pricks of pain nipped at his skull as if he was being stung by an extremely angry and persistent hornet.

  Onghwe started throwing pillows as he reached his bed, and the Flower Knight adroitly knocked the first aside with his spear, let another bounce off his chest, and ducked under a third. He kept closing on the Khan throughout, and after the third missile, he thrust his spear at the Khan’s legs. The Khan, who had been digging through the layers of furs and pillows, found what he was looking for. As he pulled his legs back, getting out of range of Kim’s attack, he twisted his body, and levered up the long pole that had been hidden beneath the opulent layers.

  It was a guan do, similar to Zug’s naginata, but the blade wa
s shorter, thicker, and had a notch and a spike along the back edge. Onghwe whipped the pole-arm around, and Kim, having some experience fighting against this weapon, knocked Onghwe’s first strike aside and thrust his own spear point over the top of the Khan’s haft. Onghwe snapped the haft around, rotating it over Kim’s thrust, and shoved the spear aside. He flicked the guan do blade, and Kim leaned back, letting the curved edge of the pole-arm blade whisk past his face.

  Onghwe pressed the attack, flicking the guan do in tight circles, forcing Kim back as the Flower Knight blocked and evaded the flashing blade. Kim gave ground readily and Zug approached from the Khan’s right, flicking his own weapon at the Khan. The Khan adjusted his technique, and the blade of his guan do became a darting, flashing bird that leaped from both Zug’s and Kim’s weapons without pause. Zug was content to be patient, keeping the pressure on the Khan, knowing the other man could not keep up this incredible display of dexterity for long. Eventually he would tire.

  The Khan’s blade rebounded from his naginata, slashing low toward Kim, who had started to drift closer to the Khan. The Flower Knight leaped into the air, avoiding the guan do’s blade, and at the apogee of his leap he thrust his spear forward in one hand, and the point pierced Onghwe’s shoulder.

  The Khan snarled, and Kim barely got the haft of his spear up in time to block Onghwe’s counterattack. Kim landed off balance, and the Khan’s attack sent him reeling. He drew back quickly, seeking distance from the angry Khan, and he would have been in trouble if Zug had not leaped forward with a whirling slash of his own.

  The Khan flicked the guan do up, catching Zug’s blade, and then slammed the blade of the guan do down, sliding it along Zug’s haft, aiming for the Nipponese man’s hands. Zug shifted his arms, twirling the naginata as he forced the guan do wide and retaliating with another stroke. Onghwe jerked his left hand up, catching the shaft of the naginata just inside the metal blade, and he responded with a similar slash of his own. Zug countered and closed the distance, letting his weapon fall back against his body. He snapped the shortened end up, smashing Onghwe on the side of the head.

  Onghwe’s head snapped to the side, and he stumbled. Zug stepped back, giving himself some measure, and flicked his naginata blade up in a vicious swing. Onghwe tried to parry it but only managed to deflect the naginata enough that it glanced off the upper portion of his left arm. Zug felt the blade bite into flesh, and when the Khan reeled away, he saw blood soaking the sleeve of his robe.

  “Your dogs smell blood,” he snarled, and he heard Kim make a howling noise, as if he were summoning a pack of wild hounds.

  The cry was picked up by other voices, and all three men paused.

  At the back of the tent, the Rose Knight was no longer alone. He had been joined by the other knight-the one who had helped with the cages-and a familiar giant of a man, who kept up his howl longer than the others. Braced in his hands was a long club, topped with a heavy ball of rough stone.

  Madhukar grinned as his howl trailed off. “Save a little bit for me,” he said, hefting his club.

  Kim’s shout was the only thing that saved Zug from the Khan’s sudden attack. Snarling, Onghwe rallied, lunging forward with the guan do. Zug flinched, and the blade sliced across the front of his right shoulder.

  An inch higher and the blade would have cut his throat.

  The Khan tried to seize the advantage, but Kim was suddenly there, at Zug’s side, aiming a high thrust at the Khan’s face. Onghwe retreated, smashing the Flower Knight’s spear aside, and Zug saw an opening.

  He brought the naginata around low, and flicked it up, beneath the Khan’s guard. The blade passed between the Khan’s legs, and he rotated his wrists and pulled up as the Khan danced back, fleeing from his weapon. He felt the blade tug as it sliced through cloth and flesh.

  Kim pressed forward, his spear point darting high and low at the Khan. Onghwe parried Kim’s attacks easier, but his stance was unsteady. A heavy sheen of sweat covered his face.

  He knew he had been cut.

  Zug prowled to the left, staying just out of measure but close enough that he could spring forward should an opportunity present itself. Kim continued his flurry of attacks, forcing the Khan to defend himself. Forcing him to keep moving, to keep putting weight on his injured leg.

  The inside of the Khan’s leg was covered with blood, and he was leaving a bloody trail behind him as he staggered across the rugs.

  Onghwe smashed Kim’s spear aside with a heavy swing of his guan do, and, with a heavy snarl twisting his features, he lunged at the Flower Knight, thrusting his pole arm straight at Kim’s face. The guan do didn’t have a pointed end, and the only way the strike could hurt Kim was if the Flower Knight dodged to the side but didn’t block or retreat, allowing the Khan to slash sideways. Kim twitched his head to the side as he leaned forward, and the guan do passed within a hair’s breadth of his head. He wrapped his left arm around the haft of the Khan’s pole-arm and trapped the weapon against his shoulder.

  It was a dangerous move, as the blade of the guan do was poised right behind his head. The Khan would only have to rotate the blade in order to get the edge against Kim’s skull.

  But he never got the chance.

  As soon as Kim trapped the Khan’s weapon, Zug leaped forward, bringing the naginata around in a powerful swing. The blade sheared through the Khan’s right arm and continued into his chest, where it stopped against his ribs. With a sharp tug, Zug pulled it free, and the Khan gasped, blood spattering from his mouth. Zug whirled the naginata around his head and with a reverse stroke, separated Onghwe’s head from his body.

  “It is done,” Zug said quietly.

  The Khan’s body lay twitching on the rug-covered floor of his pavilion. His head had rolled a few paces away, and it stared at the rug, its mouth hanging open.

  Kim hefted the Khan’s guan do, comparing it to the guard’s spear he had been using. It had been a long time since he had used one of these Chinese pole-arms. It was a slashing and cutting weapon, not at all like the spear.

  It felt good in his hand.

  “I don’t suppose they are going to let us walk out of here,” he said.

  Zug offered him a tiny smile, the first sign of humor that Kim had seen from him in a long time. “No,” Zug said, “They are going to be somewhat angry with us.”

  “Should we meet them outside?” Kim asked. “Would you rather die under an open sky?”

  “I would,” Zug agreed. He bowed, sweeping a hand toward the entrance of the pavilion. “After you, my friend.”

  “It has been an honor to fight beside you, Zugaikotsu No Yama.”

  For a moment, Zug seemed to be on the verge of saying something else and then he swallowed the words. “The honor has been mine, Kim Alcheon,” he said.

  Kim kept the spear, figuring he could throw it at the first Mongol who came at them. Weapons in both hands, he walked unhurriedly toward the pavilion’s entrance where Madhukar and the pair of Rose Knights were waiting for them.

  “I missed the fun,” Madhukar sighed.

  “Oh, the fun is not over yet,” Kim laughed, slapping the taller man lightly on the arm. “Come, let us go tell the Mongols what has befallen their Khan. I’m sure that will provide more opportunities for your club.”

  He was going to die a free man; they all were. It was a fitting end.

  Kim shoved aside the heavy flaps of the tent and stepped outside, surveying the field outside the Khan’s pavilion. The air was filled with smoke, and the stench of blood and death greeted him immediately. There was less activity than he had expected, but there were still enough Mongols surrounding the tent to present rather insurmountable odds.

  “Ho, warriors of the Mongol Empire,” he called out, making sure he got all of their attention. “Here I am.”

  “Here we are.” Zug emerged from the pavilion to stand next to him. The others stood beside them. Zug held up the Khan’s severed head. “And here’s your Khan.” He dropped it on the ground and kicke
d it toward the mob of Mongols. “His dogs got the better of him.”

  An angry surge raced through the Mongols and spears, swords, and clubs were all brought to bear on the pair. Kim didn’t even bother to count the number of deadly weapons pointed in their direction. He looked and laughed. Not at the Mongol’s reaction to Zug’s contemptuous gesture, but at what he saw rapidly approaching the rear of the Mongol mob.

  The knights of the West.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Congregabo Te

  The day was nearly over before Ocyrhoe found them.

  Ferenc and Father Rodrigo had stopped on the side of the road, apparently for a meal. Father Rodrigo’s satchel was lying flat open, the cup-unusually brilliant in the late afternoon sun-sitting in the center as if it had just been unveiled. Father Rodrigo himself towered over Ferenc, speaking loudly and rapidly in Magyar. Ferenc’s body language was that of a person either in shock or grieving, seemingly paralyzed by Father Rodrigo’s fervor.

  Ocyrhoe dismounted from the horse she had been given by the Emperor-whose stables were not as bereft of suitable mounts as he had intimated. Ferenc spotted her first. He made no move to rise and greet her, but only struggled to offer her a weak smile.

  “Your Eminence,” she called to Father Rodrigo, and her use of the honorific broke through whatever fog was clouding his brain. His mouth snapped shut, and he stood still, staring at her and blinking, as if he could not quite remember how he knew her. Ocyrhoe put her hand over her heart, squeezing her fingers into a fist to hide from him how much they were trembling. “I greet you as a friend. Do you still recall me as such?”

  Father Rodrigo’s mouth worked, as if he were tasting her words. She recalled the meeting with Robert of Somercotes, and how Father Rodrigo had seemed to be in a daze until he had seen Ferenc. Even then, he had only been intermittently engaged with the rest of them.