“Yes,” she said, suddenly frightened. “I will.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
An Audience with the Khan
A Mongol, knocked into a cook fire during the initial surge of horsemen, had lived long enough to run—shirt and hair on fire—into the rows of tents. Rutger assumed he had died from the burns, but before he had expired, the flames had leaped from him to several tents. The fire was spreading, and a haze of ash and embers was starting to fill the air. A storm of glittering snow.
The battle had moved away from him, and he took advantage of the respite to catch his breath. His lungs ached from battlefield exertion, and he gulped air as best he could. There was no time to rest, even for a moment. Even with the Livonians bolstering their numbers, they were still outnumbered. As long as they could keep the Mongols off balance and disorganized, they stood a chance. They had to keep fighting.
Off to his left, Rutger caught sight of Kristaps, who had lost his horse and now fought on foot. He fought with a relentless energy, his Great Sword of War rising and falling with methodical precision. Rutger felt a pang of envy at the other man’s strength, but he pushed that thought away. He was under no illusion about his age or his health.
The front line was not a place for him any longer.
Ahead of him, four knights—three Shield-Brethren and a Livonian—staggered out of the smoke. Arrows followed them, and one of the Shield-Brethren fell. A howling group of Mongols came next, swords and spears eager for blood. Trailing behind the war party was an enormously fat Mongol with a blood-spattered cudgel.
“Behind you!” Rutger shouted, waving his sword and starting to run toward the three men, but his lungs seized. He stumbled, gasping for breath. Not now, he pleaded, let me finish. His throat convulsing, his body shaking as it tried to draw in enough air, he could only watch as two groups smashed into one another.
Rutger was still catching his breath when a number of Shield-Brethren rushed past him to join the frenzied melee. He recognized one—the initiate, Maks—and he wondered why the young man was here and not protecting the boy, Hans.
The Mongols were shouting a name—Ashiq Temür—and Rutger saw the fat Mongol shouting in response, issuing orders to the men around him. Rutger pounded his hand against his chest as he limped toward the battle.
The panic holding his chest eased, and his lungs inflated in a rush. His vision both darkening and lightening, Rutger felt his strength return, and he moved more quickly to aid his brothers. He slew two Mongols as the battle surged around him, welcoming him back to the fray, before he had a chance to take stock of that state of the melee.
He was in the midst of a straining mass of bodies, sword ringing against sword, spear thrusting into maille and cloth, men on the ground grappling with daggers and bare hands. He caught sight of the fat Mongol, Ashiq Temür, and he struggled to move in that direction.
His attention was suddenly interrupted by a screaming Mongol who came at him from the side. Forced to react, Rutger pivoted backward, twisting his midsection just out of range as he rotated his sword to a high guard and snapped his hips back, bringing his sword edge down in a cut at the Mongol’s head. The Mongol intercepted the stroke, and wheeled his curved sword around Rutger’s blade.
As was the case in any fight, the ones who lived were the ones who had some skill, and as the battle wore on, Rutger found that the men he faced were showing more and more of it. The Mongol’s response to his parry was fast, and he had to snap his hilt up in order to keep the line closed. The Mongol’s blade slid down his with a hiss of metal grating across metal, and Rutger ducked as he sidestepped. He was now beneath his enemy’s blade and inside. With a quick pull, he freed his blade from the bind and slashed it across the Mongol’s torso, gutting the man. He stepped through, turning, and reversing his hands, finished his opponent off with a cut to the back of the neck.
He spotted Maks again, and he watched as the young warrior closed in on Ashiq Temür. The fat warrior caught the first stroke of the initiate’s sword on his cudgel as he tried to get closer to the young man. Maks kept his distance, lashing out with his sword as he darted out of the way of the fat Mongol’s club. His sword sliced across Ashiq Temür’s arm, leaving a red line that immediately started to run with blood. Keep your distance, Rutger thought, a grim smile on his lips.
But Maks had nowhere to go. He had been spun around in the fight and now his back was to a tent. Instead of waiting for Ashiq Temür’s attack, Maks moved first. But the fat Mongol was quicker than his bulk suggested. He got within Maks’s measure and swept his bulky arm down, pinning Maks’s sword against his body. Maks struggled a second too long, trying to pull his sword free, and he brought his hand up in a valiant—but hopeless—effort to shield his face from the Mongol’s cudgel.
Rutger saw Maks’s body jerk and spasm as his skull was shattered by Ashiq Temür’s club, and when the fat Mongol stepped back, the young initiate—his face a bloody, unrecognizable pulp—fell as if bonelessly to the ground.
Rutger’s chest threatened to seize again, and his blood pounded in his ears. Another boy gone, he thought. He heard his voice echoing in his head, screaming the Shield-Brethren battle cry.
The guards outside of Ongwhe’s tent saw them coming and hesitated, frightened by the bloody figures running toward them. Zug had his naginata, and at his side were Kim, Lakshaman, and one of the Rose Knights. The guards had been stuck at the Khan’s tent, unable to participate in the battle, forced to watch what little bit of the melee they could see. They were eager to fight—too eager, perhaps—and when the fight finally came to them, they reacted poorly.
A guard thrust his spear too soon at Zug and he sidestepped it easily. With a tiny flick of his hands he smashed the shaft aside with the heavy naginata and swiped the blade across the narrow gap between the top of the Mongol’s armor and the base of his throat. It was a tiny space, but with years of practice he had gotten very good at cutting it—straight across, side to side.
Nearby, a guard dropped to the ground, gurgling and clawing at the knife that sprouted from his throat. Two more guards charged him and he dropped down to one knee, pulling his weapon tight to his body. He kept the blade of the naginata pointed up, forcing the guards to go to either side of him or risk impaling themselves on his blade. The guards ran right into Kim and Lakshaman, who fell upon them in a frenzy of steel.
More guards poured out of the Khan’s tent, and Zug lost himself in the battle that followed. The skullmaker sang its song, and he felt a tiny spark of joy in his chest.
Finally, he was doing the right thing.
When the last guard fell, weeping as he tried to staunch the earnest flow of blood from a severed arm, Zug strode toward the Khan’s tent and thrust aside the heavy flaps.
The interior was surprisingly sparse for as large as it was. There were only a few tables and divans scattered on a sea of colorful rugs. On the far side, Onghwe Khan lounged on a long platform draped with silks and furs. A nearby table was covered with trays of food, and the Khan languidly held a silver goblet in one hand, seemingly unconcerned about the sudden appearance of armed men in his private tent. His body was draped with layers of colored silks, and though the lavish fabrics hid his frame, the enormous weight of his body could not be fully disguised.
He was completely unarmed and unprepared for the quartet’s entrance, yet he did not look remotely frightened. Unlike the whore hiding behind him, her eyes wide with abject terror.
There were still more guards as well. Zug’s eyes darted about the grand room, counting five armed men. They were approaching the front of the tent cautiously, their expressions running the gamut from fury to outright panic.
But the Khan was nonplussed. Zug returned his gaze to Onghwe’s round face, seeking some sign that the Khan remotely understood what was about to happen to him. How can he be so unaware of the danger? he thought. Is the Khan in the grip of some sort of pleasure drug? Is he insensate from wine? The Khan’s mouth opened slightly, his ton
gue darting out to run across his ruddy lips, and Zug felt only revulsion and fury at the years he had lost to this man.
The guards were approaching, and there was no more time for idle speculation. Zug stepped farther inside the tent, allowing the others to crowd past him. Kim wasted no time, leaping to attack the first man. The Flower Knight’s spear pierced the throat of his opponent with a well-aimed thrust; he folded the man in half with a powerful kick to the abdomen, and then proceeded to leap over the collapsing man to smash through the guard of a second Mongol, who screamed as Kim’s blade cut through his arm and lodged in his chest.
On Zug’s left, Lakshaman parried a spear thrust with his sword, cutting at the guard’s hands as the weapon went past him. The stroke took too long, and he didn’t get his sword around in time to block the thrust from a second man. He let out a low grunt as the spear point entered his right shoulder. As Zug watched, Lakshaman grabbed the shaft of the spear and wrenched the spear-wielding Mongol closer to him. He rammed his blade through the man, and as the Mongol died, he let go of his sword and pulled the spear out of his shoulder. A hard cast knocked the remaining guard off his feet, and only then did Lakshaman retrieve his sword.
The last guard hesitated, and Zug glanced at the young Rose Knight standing next to him. Zug tilted his head toward the Mongol, and the boy grinned as he darted forward to engage this last guard.
Zug turned his attention to the Khan, but Lakshaman was already moving. The scarred fighter bounded to the top of one table, jumped between two divans, and then took an immense leap toward the reclining Khan. His sword was raised high above his head, and he let out an animalistic scream as he brought his sword down in a mighty swing.
The whore screamed, her voice a thin echo of Lakshaman’s cry, and there followed a muffled thud that caught everyone’s attention as Lakshaman’s sword buried itself deep within the mass of pillows and furs.
But not the body of Onghwe Khan.
Zug felt his sweat go cold on his brow. He had never seen a man move so fast.
Onghwe was standing now, a plain sword in his hand as if had been summoned by some arcane magic. The girl was still screaming, her lungs not yet having run out of air. Lakshaman was frozen, the muscles of his arms and back standing out in plain relief. Onghwe’s face was no longer soft and his eyes were bright and fierce. He swung his arm, and Lakshaman’s head, expression of surprise and disbelief permanently frozen on the scarred man’s face, separated from his body and bounced across the rugs, leaving bloody blotches as it rolled.
Onghwe smiled, and Zug found himself staring at the face of a tiger who had just cornered its prey. “Over these many years, I have enjoyed watching you suffer,” Onghwe said, shaking Lakshaman’s blood from his blade. “Time and again, I thought you would lie down and die, but you were like an incredibly stupid and faithful dog. You never gave up. No matter how badly I abused you or beat you or pushed to the brink of madness, you never quit. You two are, without a doubt, the most impressive specimens I have ever captured.”
He smiled and beckoned Zug and Kim to approach. “Come to me, my most faithful dogs. Your new friend too. You have no idea how long I have been waiting for this moment.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Guiding the Empire
The first arrow pierced the man standing in front of Ögedei through the hollow of his throat. The arrow buried itself to its fletching, and to Ögedei it seemed as if the man had suddenly sprouted a white flower at the base of his neck. The hunter jerked, a spatter of blood erupting from his mouth, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he clawed frantically at the feathers and shaft sunk into his neck. The arrow, longer than any Ögedei had ever seen, protruded from the hunter’s back.
The second arrow punched through the skull of the man standing behind him, the broadhead point of the arrow sticking out of the man’s face below his left eye. This man was dead as he collapsed, his arms flopping forward as if attempting to embrace Ögedei as he fell.
Namkhai slammed into Ögedei, shoving him against his horse. Ögedei’s face was smashed against the horse’s flank, and his exclamation of surprise turned into a muffled sputter through a mouthful of horsehide. Ögedei 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, Ögedei 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. Ögedei 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.
Ögedei 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 Ögedei 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. Ögedei 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, Ögedei 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 Ögedei. He writhed and wailed, and Ögedei 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. Ögedei 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 va
nished 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.
The Mongoliad: Book Three Page 57
