The Mongoliad: Book Three

by Neal Stephenson

  It wasn’t a fly. It was a man’s voice.

  Orange and white sparks—like crazed fireflies—danced across his eyelids as he dragged them open. There was some light—the day had not yet passed—but it was a weak glow through the gaps in the hide walls of the ger. Most of the shadows were gray shapes flitting at the edge of his vision. He stared at the iron bars of his cage for some time, waiting for the pain behind his eyes to pass.

  This was the same cage he had been in after his fight in the arena. They had beaten him then too, but the worst part of that punishment had been the quivering shakes as the demons in his blood cried out for alcohol. Those demons were gone, pissed out some time ago, and all that remained was the old hollowness. The ragged ghost who had haunted his mind since he had left home. Dead man, it whispered in the bleak emptiness. Dead...

  With a groan that he felt all the way down to his toes, he forced his shoulder to move, and he rolled onto his back. He let his head flop over until his cheek rested against the sticky sand scattered across the floor of the cage.

  He was not alone in the cage. Huddled against the bars was another sack of flesh. Black hair, matted with blood. Face swollen and purple with bruises. Did he look that bad?

  The other figure peered at him with one eye, the other hidden beneath a mass of puffy purple flesh. “Zzzzuuuuggg...” The voice issuing from the man’s throat was a ragged whisper that slowly crawled across the sandy floor of the cage.

  “Kiiii—” Was that his voice? He didn’t recognize it, but the noise brought a smile to the other man’s face. A blood-stained smile.

  “Still here,” Kim whispered. He coughed, or maybe he laughed. It was hard to tell. “They should have killed us.”

  Zug swallowed, his throat raw and parched. “They made a mistake,” he managed.

  In his head, the old ghost laughed.

  May God have mercy on me for my lies, Dietrich prayed as he rode in the midst of the Mongol raiding party. All he had wanted was to save his men from the same ignoble defeat that had slain so many at Schaulen, and all he had accomplished so far was the ugly deaths of his bodyguards—two of the most loyal and trusty knights in his command. It was as if God was punishing him already for his hubris. How dare he think his order more worthy of salvation than any other knights of Christendom. Did they not worship the same God? Yet, he had offered to sacrifice them in order to save his own. Was such an act worthy of a Christian soldier?

  These are the decisions a Grandmaster must make, he reminded himself, recalling his last visit to Rome and his audience with the Pope. Gregory IX had offered his ring for Dietrich to kiss, and the Heermeister had gotten down on one knee and kissed the old man’s hand. Sacrifices must be made, the Pope had said, offering Dietrich his other hand, and Dietrich had kissed the smaller gold ring as well. The one with the broken sigil. He had sworn fealty not only to the Church and the Pope, but to something older than both.

  Beside Dietrich, Father Pius clung to his horse like a wet rag. The priest had not stopped whimpering since the Mongols had swept both of them into their column, and the way the priest was quivering in his saddle, Dietrich was surprised the coward hadn’t pissed himself.

  “They will release us,” Pius squeaked, his voice thin and shrill. Dietrich wasn’t sure if the priest was asking him what was—in his mind—an entirely rhetorical and pointless question, or if the priest thought that endless repetition would make the words true. Twice now the priest had tried to engage the Mongols in some sort of discourse, but the warriors closest to them had only laughed at the priest’s timorous words. The second time, one of the warriors had whacked Pius about the head and shoulders with his bow, finding even more amusement in the noises the priest made with each blow. Eventually Pius realized the only way to make the man stop his abuse was to stop shrieking.

  “They will kill us, as soon as they remember we’re not useful to them,” Dietrich growled. He didn’t say it to frighten the priest even more, but to focus the man’s attention. “More specifically, they will kill you as soon as they no longer need my words translated. Your survival depends on mine. Do you understand?”

  The priest stared at Dietrich, eyes frozen with fear. Pius’s horse snorted and danced a few jerky steps as the priest lost control of his bladder.

  The Shield-Brethren were housed in an old monastery north of the ruins of Koischwitz, and while Dietrich surmised it was possible to approach the chapter house through the woods between the destroyed hamlet and the old ruins, that approach would be noisy and difficult for a host of riders. By fielding a sizable war party, the Mongols had sacrificed stealth and speed for numbers. Dietrich did not know how many Shield-Brethren were at the chapter house—this was one of the many details they had kept hidden by virtue of their distance from Hünern—but he suspected Tegusgal had more than double the numbers of warriors. In which case, a direct approach made sense. Dietrich had made no suggestions as Tegusgal had led the party across the narrow bridge spanning the sluggish river that lay to the west of Hünern.

  The bridge had been a narrow span occasioned by local herdsmen and the isolated merchant prior to the Mongols’ arrival, and as the influx began around the arena, some effort had been applied to shoring up the old pillars and replacing the more rotten planks. Once improved, the bridge became more used, which led to more wear and tear on the timbers, necessitating yet another pass at repairing it. The second time, Mongol engineers got involved; nearly overnight, the bridge doubled in width, and a small shack was erected on the Hünern side.

  Onghwe Khan knew the value in controlling the roads. While the man had a reputation for being dissolute, he was also cannily aware of the fundamental ebb and flow of humanity. Dietrich suspected his rumored boredom was nothing more than an affectation, though he never wanted to find out one way or another.

  Surrounded by mounted Mongol warriors, Dietrich and Pius galloped across the wide bridge, and the group swung north, putting the river on their right. Dietrich—with some annoyance—marveled at the speed and fluidity with which the host moved, each mount keeping pace with the others with neither thought nor order required. They slowed as they got out into the countryside, allowing themselves to be seen by any who still moved out in the open. Tegusgal was intentionally projecting power by way of visible force, Dietrich realized, to garner fear. It was not enough to destroy his enemies; it needed to be seen and left undisputed.

  Dietrich’s charger, larger than the tallest of the Mongol horses by several hands, chewed on its bit at being trapped in the center of a mass that moved slower than it liked, but Dietrich held it steady. For the time being, he was a prisoner. There was nowhere to go, and no reason to push the Mongols to ride faster.

  His and Pius’s usefulness would come to an end soon enough.

  The Mongols began to shift around him, and Dietrich found his horse being nudged toward the front of the formation. The Mongol party slipped past him like beads of water sliding off a broad leaf, and in short order, he was in front of the host. He felt like a game beast hunted for the sport of some bored nobleman in his own lands, and some of his apprehension about what was to come next drained away, leaving only the burning shame and humiliation of his position.

  He was riding to his death. His plan had been flawed from the outset, the feeble machinations of a tiny mind that could only react in fear. What did he really know of the Shield-Brethren’s location? Of their defenses and their armament? He was going to ride right into the camp of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. God would decide what happened next. He had no other option. The longer he tarried, the more obvious it would be the Mongols that he had no idea how to deliver on what he had offered them.

  When that happened, Tegusgal’s archers would fill him with arrows. The image of Burchard and Sigeberht dead in the street flashed unbidden across his thoughts, and an involuntary shudder shook his frame. He was almost as bad as Pius.

  He bent his thoughts toward the Shield-Brethren instead of dwelling on the dead. They were
using an abandoned monastery, and he tried to imagine how they would apportion themselves throughout the ruins. They would need some open ground where they could pasture and exercise their horses. Would they set up an archery range? They would have to forage for food, and they had enough mouths to feed that they would have to use some of the horses as pack animals. Horses would balk at continually moving through dense undergrowth. There would be paths in the forest, tracks made by the constant coming and going of the hunting teams. Dietrich started to pay closer attention to the gaps between the trees as the woods grew thicker around him and his Mongolian entourage.

  He tried not to think about the bow that each man carried, about how quickly he had seen them nock and shoot an arrow. The small of his back itched. Even in armor, he felt naked.

  His eye was drawn to a gap between a trio of mature oak trees. On one of the trees, he spotted a series of too-regular markings. At a distance, it would have been easy to miss the cuts, dismissing them as happenstance, but up close, he could see they were made by a knife blade. They were at the right height too for a man riding on a horse. The branches of the tree on the left side of the gap didn’t reach across the opening as they should either. There was one, curling low in the front, but behind it, there was a suspicious dearth.

  Dietrich nudged his horse toward the gap, ducking beneath the leafy screen of the foremost branch. Once past, it was easy where someone had taken a blade to other branches, cutting them back from the path. Still leaning forward, he cast his eyes across the track, noticing the confusion of marks left by numerous horses coming and going.

  Should he follow this path? It was a narrow track, wide enough for one horse only. If it led right to the Shield-Brethren chapter house, he didn’t want to be in the lead. That would only make his betrayal more evident. The Shield-Brethren would see him first—a knight of the West—and then the Mongols would come pouring out of the woods. They would all know he had led the enemy to them.

  Not that any of them are going to survive.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The Mongol party had come to a halt behind him, gathering around the tiny gap in the trees. Beneath his armor, goose bumps danced on the flesh of his chest. Expressionless faces, staring at him; eyes alight with murderous glee. Pius was near the back of the mob, his cheeks wet with tears. The priest’s lips moved, but Dietrich could not hear his words, though he could imagine the prayer the Priest was saying. Libera nos a malo...

  Tegusgal barked a command at him, waving a hand at the trees. Several men on either side of the Mongol leader raised their bows. Arrows were nocked.

  Dietrich raised a hand, indicating that he understood Tegusgal’s command. He didn’t need Pius to translate, and he briefly wondered if by acknowledging Tegusgal, he had just signaled the end of the priest’s usefulness. Without waiting to see, he tapped his horse lightly in the ribs and turned his attention to the narrow path into the woods.

  Rutger brought him to a squalid camp behind the fire-blackened remnants of a wall. There had been four walls once, encompassing a house that had probably belonged to Hünern’s burgher. Tents had been strewn up along the surviving wall, creating a makeshift shelter that had once been home to a crew of brutish Franks, vicious men who had shown little compunction about killing those who they saw as intruders. Hans and the Rats had learned to stay well away from the Black Wall—as they had called the camp.

  It was empty now, and Hans could only guess as to the demise of the Franks. Had they all been slain in the riots or had their bluster run away and they along with it?

  Before Hans had a chance to ask Rutger about the previous inhabitants of the camp, other Rose Knights began to join them. They were dressed much like their quartermaster—in filthy rags and plain habits. Occasionally, though, Hans could catch sight of what lay beneath their clothes. A silvery glint of maille, the dull sheen of boiled leather, the dark knobs of hammered studs. Armor. As the men solemnly huddled around Rutger and Hans, the boy felt something akin to what he felt when he slept among the roots of the spindly tree the Rats claimed as their own. He was in the presence of something older than he could imagine, something that had the strength to endure all adversity.

  Rutger put a firm hand on Hans’s shoulder. “The boy knows much about the layout of the Mongol camp.” The older man squeezed Hans’s shoulder. “Tell them.”

  He began with some hesitation, still awed by the stern focus of the knights around him, but as he spoke he slipped into the patter he used with all of the boys who had come and gone into the Mongol camp on his behalf. He knew every detail of what lay behind the walls of the Mongol compound. He had spoken so often over the past few months that the minutiae of the camp were etched in his mind like carvings upon ancient stones. The Shield-Brethren listened intently, and when he finally ran out of breath, they asked a few questions, prompting him to recite certain details once again. How many guards were at the front gate? Where was the back gate? How many archers in the towers along the front? Where were the barracks? How quickly did the Mongols react to an alarm? What about the prisoners who the Khan used as fighters in the arena? Where were they held?

  When he finished, he listened quietly as Rutger walked through their plan, adjusting it as necessary in light of Hans’s information. He and the Rats had planned excursions in the past, but they had been the raids of boys—unkempt plans for thievery and mischief. The Shield-Brethren spoke of more brutal matters, of the efficient ways to kill men, of the ways to break an enemy’s will to fight. Certain elements of the plan might have struck Hans as dishonest or unbecoming actions of a knight had he been more of an innocent, but given what he had seen nailed to the wall of the arena, he found the simplicity of their plan to his liking. It was both cunning and jarringly direct.

  Could it work? He felt something like hope spark in his chest, but it was a tiny flame and a cruel wind could snuff it out quickly.

  “Styg, what of our riders?” Rutger asked.

  “They’ll be ready,” Styg answered. He had come with Andreas on that day when the Shield-Brethren had stolen the Livonian horses. He was tall, dark-haired, and—though young—he exuded a confidence that Hans wished he could emulate as readily. “Halvard and Yvor have collected enough from the Mongol watchers to clothe themselves.” He glanced shyly at Hans, as if he wanted to speak with the boy but felt awkwardly confined by the current situation.

  “Very well,” Rutger said. “I will go to the cart. The rest of you go to your men and wait for the signal.”

  “What of the prisoners?” Styg asked.

  Hans had told them they were scattered about the compound. Tegusgal did not want them housed too close to one another. Such proximity could easily foment rebellion.

  Rutger shook his head. “Our priority is the gate.”

  “The boy knows where they are housed. His idea has merit.”

  “It is too risky.”

  Styg laughed, and Hans was surprised to see Rutger recoil from the younger man’s reaction. “What difference will two men make?” Styg asked. “If we are that desperate to hold the gate, then we have already lost. Let Eilif and I go. If we can free the prisoners, then the Mongols will be fighting on two fronts. There are—how many? Two dozen?” He glanced at Hans, who nodded. “Was this not the reason Andreas wanted to make contact with them? They have the same enemy. Given the chance, I know they will fight at our sides.” Styg gestured at Hans. “He knows as well. These men are our allies. We can trust them.” He thrust his chin toward the sprawl, away from the Mongol camp. “What if the others do not come?”

  “By the Virgin,” Rutger swore, “you are going to haunt me forever, aren’t you?”

  Hans did not follow Rutger’s speech, and as he glanced at the other Rose Knights, he saw that many of them did not understand their master’s question either. Rutger passed his hand across his face, covering his eyes for a brief moment. His fingers were bent and crooked, and they shook. “Very well,” he sighed, lowering his hand.

  “But not th
e boy,” he amended, cutting off Styg’s enthusiastic reply. “The boy stays on this side of the wall, with someone to watch over him.”

  Styg nodded, curbing his tongue.

  “Go,” Rutger said. “Before I change my mind. Wait for us to draw their attention.”

  Before he saw the chapter house, Dietrich expected to smell it: the burning fragrance of green wood, the crisp tang of smoldering meat, the hearty aroma of baking bread. But as his horse trotted along the narrow path, he smelled none of that. There was only the scent of wet ash in the air, the morning dew still damp on partially burned logs that had lost their heat during the night.

  Concerned, he snapped his reins against his horse’s neck. There was only one reason why he would be smelling cold fires, and as he broke through the edge of the clearing, he quickly saw that his fear was well-founded.

  The chapter house was deserted.

  The central building of the old monastery was a pile of rubble scattered across the northern verge of the clearing as if the chapel had been knocked over a half century ago by the idle hand of God, and an arc of roofless outbuildings abutted the ragged front porch of the chapel. A small graveyard bounded with a low stone wall lay to the east, and the forest encroached from the west, taking over what had once been the monastery’s pasture; Dietrich spied a number of stout trunks arranged along the leading edge of the birch and oak trees. Archery stands, he noted, his eyes picking up other signs that the ruins had recently been inhabited. A thin strand of white smoke curled up slowly from one of the circular fire pits on his left. Picket stakes, minus the rope between them, had been driven into the ground next to the graveyard. Other bits of wood sticking out of the ground indicated where the tents had been, and a long scrap of dirty cloth still clung to the jagged stones of a large gap in one of the walls of the chapel.