Namkhai remained unruffled, as if he had seen this facet of Munokhoi before and was not concerned. Gansukh looked at Namkhai’s expression and knew the wrestler had looked upon something much more terrifying than the enraged Torguud captain and had found that thing wanting. Namkhai was still waiting to find a reason to be truly afraid, and judging by the placid arrangement of his features he was prepared to wait a long time.
“Namkhai’s right,” Gansukh said. “There are no more Chinese. They’ve all fled. Back south.”
A few heads turned toward the south, but most eyes were still roving back and forth between Munokhoi, Namkhai, and Gansukh. Munokhoi had gone icily quiet. His hand rested on the hard rim of his saddle, and Gansukh noticed the shape of his saddlebags. They were full. But of what?
“Escaped, you mean. Escaped with the help of their Chinese spy.” Munokhoi had control of his voice again, and Gansukh felt a chill touch his spine. “She may be no danger to the Khagan now, but she’ll bring her murderous brothers back for another attack.”
Lian stirred at Gansukh’s side. Words tumbled from her mouth, but they were so softly spoken that only Gansukh heard them. He tried not to react. She was speaking Chinese.
“She brought them to us; she betrayed our Khagan,” Munokhoi repeated, still holding on to his previous accusation. “Your whore is a traitor. Protect her, and you are a traitor.” His hand twitched, and almost imperceptibly, he turned toward the pair of bags thrown across his horse’s back.
“You are a liar.” Gansukh stared up at the Torguud captain, keeping his gaze away from the bulging saddle bags. “Lian killed the Chinese commander.” He pointed in the direction of the body. “He lies over there. There is her dagger.” He grasped for her hand, found it, and raised it up for the throng to see. “Here is his blood.”
Munokhoi spat on the ground, refusing to look at the dead Chinese man. “Look at my face,” Gansukh demanded, letting go of Lian’s hand. “I was their captive. They were going to interrogate me, but she came to my rescue.”
Namkhai locked eyes with the two men nearest the dead man, and they dismounted to examine the corpse. Namkhai jerked his head, and the two Mongols flipped the body over. Grabbing the corpse by the hands, they dragged it around Munokhoi’s horse and deposited it on the ground next to Lian and Gansukh. She shied away from the body, stepping more closely to Gansukh, her hands lightly touching his arm. The Chinese man lay on his back, the dark ruin of his throat plainly visible.
“Anyone could have killed this dog.” Munokhoi spat on the body.
Gansukh felt Lian go rigid and then relax. When she spoke, her voice was clear and precise. “I killed him,” she said. She wasn’t looking at Munokhoi. She held Namkhai’s gaze. “And when I killed their leader, the rest fled. Like the broken dogs they were. We’ve stopped their attack.”
“We?” Munokhoi’s voice dripped with scorn and disbelief.
“We,” Gansukh said simply. “Following them would be a mistake. We do not know this terrain. We do not know if they even have a camp. Those who are still alive are scattered, running for their lives. What would we gain by chasing lost dogs in the dark? It is better for us to return to the Khan’s side.”
Namkhai nodded in agreement, but he made no move to do that. He only looked at Munokhoi with that same flat expression. Waiting.
Munokhoi had two options as Gansukh read the situation: agree with him and return to the Mongol camp, or insist on continuing the hunt. If they continued and found little trace of the Chinese raiders—which seemed likely—then Munokhoi risked losing face with the Khagan for making a foolish decision. If he returned to camp now, he only lost face with the current group of men by standing down from his challenge to Gansukh. It was an infuriating choice, Gansukh knew, but as he watched the Torguud captain weigh these choices, he realized Munokhoi was considering a third choice. Killing both him and Lian now before anyone could intervene.
Lian sensed the conflict in Munokhoi as well, and she took a step back and to the left, putting some distance between herself and Gansukh. Making two separate targets. Gansukh, surprising himself, took a step to his right, preparing to flank his enemy.
Munokhoi growled deep in his throat, and his eyes betrayed him, flicking down to the saddle bags.
What secret did he have in there? Gansukh wondered.
“Captain,” Namkhai said, breaking the tension. “What are your orders?” What saved them was not the question, but the deference in Namkhai’s voice. The submissive request for direction from a superior.
“We head back to camp,” Munokhoi snapped. “Take them with us.” Without another word, he pushed his horse through the rank of men and the sound of its hooves trailed after it in the night.
Singly and in pairs, the other riders followed their captain until only Namkhai and two other riders remained.
“We’ll follow you,” Gansukh said. “Somewhat more slowly.”
Namkhai shook his head. “Ride with them,” he said, indicating the other horsemen. “We are to bring you back with us.” The expression on his face made it quite clear he was not interested in any more discussion.
CHAPTER EIGHT
An Auspicious Outing
Andreas awoke to the sound of the initiates battering one another in the training yard. He lay quietly on his cot for a few minutes, listening to the rhythmic clacking noise of their training weapons. His back and shoulders were cold and stiff, a reminder of a bruising hit he’d taken during his last qualifying bout. He’d endured worse, he reminded himself as he rolled to his side. I am a knight initiate. As long as I can stand—even if only on one leg—I will carry on. A grim smile played itself across his lips as he climbed to his feet and stretched, the muscles in his back and legs complaining. Just as long as I can still hold a sword.
Shuffling slowly, he wandered from his alcove—a tiny cell once used by a lay brother as a quiet sanctum for prayer—through the ruined monastery, and to the heavy cloth masquerading as a door over the ragged threshold of the hall. Squinting, even though the outside light was diffused by the pale morning fog and the tall trees surrounding their chapter house, he pushed through the cloth and tottered outside. A barrel had been placed next to the door, and rain from the last few days had topped it off. He dipped his hands in, and splashing his face, drove away the last clinging vestiges of sleep. Warm, we sleep. Cold, we wake.
No longer bleary-eyed and befuddled by the dawn light, he straightened and looked for the source of the clacking noise—the young men, sparring with training blades.
Since the Shield-Brethren had made this place their temporary home, the overall deterioration of the buildings had been arrested, and the unkempt grounds had been transformed. The training yard, in particular, had been nothing but a swath of open ground covered with pale grass and a few fiercely determined shrubs. But after many hours of men trampling back and forth, the ground had been scoured of plant life and pounded flat.
The trainees roamed freely across the yard, working in pairs and in teams of three under the watchful eye of Knútr, one of the other knight initiates. Andreas wandered toward the trainees—watching their technique, eyeing their form. He was no oplo—not like Taran had been—to see at a glance where a man faltered, but he knew his way around instruction at arms all the same. Maks, for example, had a tendency to favor striking on the right side more than the left, and this morning he seemed to be trying the reverse. Without much success. He’s thinking about it too much, Andreas thought, his mind is getting in the way of what he wants to do.
Beyond the yard, others were practicing archery, putting arrows into a line of straw men that had been erected close to the tree line. The penalty for missing the target was to scour the underbrush for the missing arrow, and the trainees had all quickly learned to hit some part of their target. Now, they were improving their precision.
Doing drills was a continuous facet of life—for the knights as well as the trainees—and their Spartan existence in this makeshift chapter house m
eant an opportunity for more drills. Training for war was much different from training for duels in the lists, and while a part of what they prepared for was combat in the Khan’s arena, most of their preparations were for war. As Andreas watched the young men train, it was clear to him that they were no longer mere boys. Some laughed and joked with one another as they awaited their turns—exuding confidence in their body language; the faces of others were fixed resolutely—not with fear or apprehension, but stern focus. The Virgin watch over them, Andreas silently implored. They are still so young.
Styg was sitting next to one of the cookeries with two other trainees, idly prodding the flames with a long stick. He looked up as Andreas approached, as did the other two, and Andreas was jarred by their expressions. He’d had that same look once, when he had worn training leather of his own. That imploring look of adoration and admiration the student has for his oplo. The look that said, There is a hero.
Andreas couldn’t help but think of his teachers over the years. And of his fellow students, both at Petraathen and elsewhere. How many of them were still alive? he wondered. How many of them had died with that look still on their faces?
“I can’t promise the hare is well cooked,” Styg said, a grin on his broad face, “but at least it isn’t badly burned.”
Andreas eyed the logs on which the young men were sitting. After years of traveling, he was accustomed to the often rough-hewn quality of the furnishings at camps and chapter houses, but the muscles in his lower back were tight as he considered sitting down. He needed to move around more, to get his blood moving, to shake off the stiffness that had crept into his body during sleep. However, eyeing the three faces around the cook pit, he indulged their desire to talk, and lowered himself to the log. Even though the wood had been softened by the rain, his buttocks complained slightly as he sat. How long had it been since he had sat on a plush silk pillow?
“Anything that hasn’t been heavily salted will taste like manna just now,” he said as Styg pulled the hare from its spit and cut it into pieces. “Panis Dominus,” Andreas explained to the other young men, answering the question clearly written on their faces. When the Latin elicited no sign of understanding in their eyes, he shrugged and reached for the offered food. He juggled the charred pieces lightly, blowing on them, before tossing several into his mouth.
Styg had overestimated his abilities. The hare was overcooked.
“There’s going to be a fight today,” one of the pair said. “At the arena.”
Andreas chewed his food slowly, nodding for the young man to continue. He had gathered as much from the activity in the wrecked city the last time he had been there, but he was curious what sort of rumors made their way back to the boys who remained at the chapter house.
“One of the Livonians is fighting.”
Andreas swallowed heavily, pushing the partially masticated food down his throat. “Indeed,” he offered, trying to recall the names on the lists. “Do you know who his opponent is?”
“One of the Khan’s privileged fighters.”
Which one? Andreas wondered. The messages that Hans eked out of the Mongol compound were appropriately cryptic, and there had been few sightings of the Khan’s coterie of exotic fighters, but Andreas had managed to glean several names: Kim Alcheon, the Flower Knight; the crazily named demon who had fought Haakon, the one the crowd called “Zug”; Madhukar, the stone-shouldered wrestler whose cudgel had caved in a Templar’s helm early in the matches, before the arena had been closed. According to Hans, the Flower Knight was still gathering accomplices, men who could be trusted to fight in an uprising. He hoped, and not just because his opponent was a Livonian Knight—as ungracious as that thought was—that the Khan’s man survived today’s fight.
“I would like to see this fight,” Andreas said. He let that sink in with the three of them as he chewed another tough piece of hare. “I am still on the lists, and it will be my turn to fight in that arena soon. It would be good to scout out the terrain, don’t you think?”
Styg nodded happily. “It is always good to take your enemy’s measure before actually engaging him.”
“I don’t expect to encounter any trouble in Hünern, but it is like a hive that has been stuck more than once with a stick, don’t you think? Its residents will be restless, prone to reacting at the slightest hint of provocation.”
“It would be foolish to expose yourself to such danger,” one of the others piped up, eagerly grasping at the opportunity being dangled in front of him.
Andreas nodded as he tossed the rest of his portion of the overcooked meat into his mouth. There was something about the threat of conflict—of the looming possibility of a violent death—that enriched a man’s senses. Food, even when burned, became more flavorful. The sun was brighter, its light searing through the recalcitrant fog. The crisp morning air, inhaled through his nose, had a faint scent of distant rain.
As he took his leave of the threesome, Andreas couldn’t help but look on the trainees with new eyes, noting that the same bracing enthusiasm that filled him was present in them as well. Death instilled a vitality for living. Detractors of the Shield-Brethren were quick to call them bloodthirsty monsters who thrived on violence, but the opposite was true. It was a foreign mind-set for those who had never carried a sword or walked across a field of battle, and Andreas had long ago given up on trying to explain it to those who did not already understand. The horrors of war—of a life filled with violence—could only be balanced by cherishing each moment of that life with a resolute assuredness and a sharp awareness of what beauty it did have.
His well-used panoply awaited him back in his tiny chamber. His longsword was notched, his maille patched, and gambeson stained. Cleanliness was a part of the Shield-Brethren vows, and he did his best to maintain what he owned in that spirit, but over time, his harness and weapons became more and more permanently marked by the travails of his life.
He had spent many years wandering Christendom, and he could not recall the origin of all the scrapes and nicks in his maille. While the masters of Petraathen had been displeased with him, they had not stripped him of his privilege. He could have returned to Týrshammar or gone to one of the other chapter houses of the Brethren, but he had opted to travel the known world instead. His journey had been lonely more often than not, but it had been one of his choosing. The decision to join his brothers at Legnica had, at first, been born out of curiosity, and in the first few weeks, he had felt—on more than one occasion—the gentle whisper of the wanderlust that had guided him for so many years. But that was akin to the temptation offered Christ during his exile in the wilderness. The promise of illicit freedom was a strong pull on a man who feared the true path he knew he had to walk.
The long alley behind the alehouse was drenched in sunlight, and the three men and the boy stood awkwardly close in the narrow space. Each but the child held a mug of ale, and the man who was not wearing the blue cloak of the Shield-Brethren was a short, stocky fellow going bald across the top of his head. His name was Ernust and he had a quick smile and a sharp laugh, which Andreas found refreshingly infectious.
Of course, the ale helped.
“I will not accept your money,” Ernust said, setting his mug down upon the wooden lid of a nearby cask. “There is little else to do in this city but brew ale and swap stories.” He grinned at Andreas and Styg. “The Livonian Brothers of the Sword are cheap bastards; they’ve taken advantage of more than a few of the poor people who come into my alehouse. Anyone who gives them—or any of the Khan’s thugs, for that matter—a good thumping will never want for drink in my establishment.”
“Your kindness is matched only by the quality of your drink, brewmaster,” Andreas said. “However, I do have two more men with me. They are keeping an eye on our horses.” He nodded toward the entrance of the alley. “Arvid and Sakse are their names, and while their cheeks are still as soft as rabbit’s fur, they are men enough to be thirsty. While I will accept your gracious hospitality for m
yself and Styg, I would not presume to assume that—”
Ernust scoffed, brushing aside Andreas’s concern with a wave of his burly hand. “Hans,” he said to the boy hovering nearby, “Fetch two more mugs for the knight’s companions.” The boy nodded and ducked through the heavy curtain on the back wall of the alehouse.
“I fear that we are an unfortunate influence on your young charge,” Andreas said when Hans was gone. “He puts himself in danger for a cause that is not his. My heart is heavy with the thought that I might bring pain and suffering to your family.” He raised his mug and examined its content. “Especially in light of your generosity.”
“The lad makes his own choices. Has since his mother died,” the brewmaster explained. “She was my sister, and she died a year before the Mongols came—thank God for that simple blessing—and the lad’s been living—” He chuckled. “Well, he was always welcome in my house, though he visited but once before running off again. Back to the streets he knew. A bit of a wild one, he is, and if you don’t mind my saying so, your attention has had an impact on him. But, I suppose you knights get that all the time, don’t you? The boys do love men in armor. And the swords—”
Andreas gave the man such a stern glance that the brewmaster’s voice died in his throat. The portly man dropped his eyes and fidgeted with his mug. “My apologies, Sir Knight. I meant no harm...”
“None was taken,” Andreas said. “Your ward has become much loved by me and mine, and his aid has strengthened our cause in a way that can never be fully repaid. Though, I wish to try.” He cleared his throat, considered what he wanted to say next, and then raised his mug to his lips. “When this unfortunate business is finished,” he continued after a long drink, “I would like to take Hans with us. I would like to make him my squire. I would protect him, and would pay for his education and training in the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae—”
The Mongoliad: Book Three Page 7
