by Mark Teppo
Once they had recovered from their astonishment, all rushed toward her to see what was the matter. On her shoulder and arms and one leg, she was swathed in mud-spattered and bloody bandages. She waved them away, though, and insisted they go outside first and tend to Alena.
Alena was sitting on an exhausted Mongol pony, hunched over, shivering uncontrollably, though the afternoon was warm. Percival and Eleazar carried her down as gently as they could, then brought her inside and laid her on a pallet so that Raphael could get a look at her. She too had been wounded in several places, and the wounds crudely bandaged. Raphael was disturbed by one in particular, a deep puncture of the arm, obviously made by an arrow, which had suppurated. Alena’s skin was marked by three distinct red lines that originated at the wound and ran up toward her armpit. Raphael had seen such marks before. They did not bode well.
“What are you doing on this side of the river?” Cnan was asking Vera. “Where are the other Shield-Maidens?”
“They are all dead,” Vera muttered, her jaw aquiver, and so exhausted she could barely force out the words. “As soon as we began the journey west, we were ambushed by a force of Mongols.”
“How many?” Istvan asked.
“A jaghun-one hundred men,” Vera said. “Though they are fewer now.”
“Do you think it was an unlucky chance?” Feronantus asked. “Or…?”
Vera shook her head. “They were lying in wait for us,” she said. “And their commander was the one you call Graymane.”
11
A Good Strategist
It is easy to overthink, Andreas had told his three charges. A good strategist does not try to anticipate his enemy’s every move; he simply plans to have his men prepared and in reasonably good position for any possible action. As when Taran taught you one-handed sword techniques, your opponent might attack in a variety of ways, but why complicate your response by trying to anticipate all of them? Make him come for you; be ready.
Much of training is challenge and repetition, and he knew they had had enough of those. The next task of a good leader is to instill confidence, and in the last few weeks, Andreas had seen how Taran’s labor had brought forth that strength as well. All these warriors needed for their final tempering was real combat.
Which had brought him to the last aspect of the trinity of exemplary leadership: leading men into battle. Though, in this case, it was his hope that the conflict would not be fatal for anyone; he wanted to get his opponents’ attention, not earn their enmity.
Andreas strolled around the side of the alehouse, walking with stick in hand; none of the four Livonian knights left outside The Frogs seemed terribly concerned about his presence-or anything else. Whatever obedience Dietrich von Gruningen had meant to implant in them had not taken root in their hearts, and as their Heermeister sat inside the alehouse, drinking his fill of the local brew, his escort sat in the sun, bored and sleepy.
They had taken up their positions across the muddy track. Their horses, hitched in a line along the low remnants of a brick wall, stood with heads down, ears forward, eyes heavy lidded, alternately lifting a hind leg or a foreleg, tails swishing at flies.
Two of the four knights were close to dozing off; another, closest to Andreas, leaned against the wall, his eyes dull from having checked the blade of his arming sword for nicks and divots over and over in the last hour. He looked up as Andreas approached. At first, his interest was fleeting, but as he realized something was amiss, he met Andreas’s gaze, his back straightened, his right hand firmly clasped his sword’s hilt, and his left hand fell away from stroking the blade.
Andreas ignored this and let his eyes pass over the seven horses. “Those are fine horses,” he said, then slowly returned his attention to the Livonian.
The Livonian eyed Andreas, examining his robes, then loosened his stance a bit and offered a grunt in response. Andreas’s disguise-the dusty, smelly robe, the crooked walking stick, the wood and leather cross-revealed no immediate threat, but the Livonian was not entirely convinced.
“I think I’ll take them,” Andreas finished, and slowly, he tightened his grip on the crooked stick.
The Livonian snorted. “They are not for sale, old man.”
Andreas shrugged. “I was not offering to buy them.”
The second Livonian, overhearing this exchange, found it interesting enough and peculiar enough that he roused from lethargy and dropped his hand to his hilt.
The first Livonian was shoving himself away from the wall when Andreas snapped the end of his stick up toward the knight’s stomach. Off balance, the knight swung his sword wildly, trying to block Andreas’s strike. Steel struck dry wood, and chips of the staff splintered off with a dusty crackling sound. Andreas let the stick’s tip rotate back and whipped the butt around in a hard, whip-crack strike at his opponent’s helmeted temple. The Livonian, so struck, dropped to the packed dirt, letting go of his sword and clutching his head. The ornamental ridge across the top of his helmet was deeply creased. This sound, unlike the parry, was more alarming-a sharp, loud whang that startled the two napping Livonians.
The second Livonian was in the process of drawing his sword when Andreas backhanded him in the face. His nose spurting blood, he forgot all about his sword and collapsed, like a man falling to his knees during a particularly moving sermon. With a sharp snap of his wrist, Andreas whipped the stick around. He struck the man on the side of the helmet, and the soldier bounced off the wall, his helmet absorbing most of the impact-but giving his head a good, rattling shock.
Andreas stepped over the fallen man, focusing on the two remaining knights. They were now on their feet, swords drawn, and regarded him warily. All surprise was lost; Andreas was clearly a serious threat, and they were deciding how best to rush him. Andreas paused as well, but for an entirely different reason, and their momentary impasse was broken up by the sudden appearance of an arrow in the shoulder of the third Livonian, on Andreas’s right.
Eilif, from a hidden position behind Andreas, upset the balance of power between the combatants with a single well-placed arrow.
The Livonian grunted in pain, staggered back several steps, and looked down and sideways at the deep-sunk shaft, confusion writ on his face as he tried to figure out how a man dressed as a priest, armed with only a crooked walking stick, could make an arrow suddenly sprout from his arm.
The fourth Livonian’s attention was also drawn to the arrow, and Andreas took advantage of that drift in the man’s attention to step in and smack his wrist. He followed with two sharp blows-one to the face and one to the forehead-and his opponent crumpled like a sack of loose bones.
Keeping an eye on the Livonian with the arrow in his shoulder, Andreas whistled for his companions, and they were at his side in an instant. Eilif had a second arrow laid across his bow, in case one of the stunned Livonians had any fight left in them.
“The horses,” Andreas said, nodding toward the line of mounts, heads raised now, ears perked, curious but not yet alarmed. “Take all but one and ride out.”
The arrow-shot Livonian scuttled toward the front door of The Frogs, yelling for his Heermeister inside. Andreas scooped up one of the arming swords and flung it at the fleeing man. It bounced off his shoulder, knocking him over, and he shrieked as the shaft of the arrow was shoved farther through the meat of his arm.
“I’ll be along shortly,” Andreas said, shooing the others with a quick gesture. “After I deliver a message.”
Having drained the bitter dregs from his tankard, Dietrich von Gruningen stared morosely at the damp stains on the warped table beside him. One more, or should he take his leave from this rat-infested place? Sigeberht would stay to collect the serving wench; she might provide enough entertainment to alleviate Dietrich’s darkening mood.
He was spared any further consideration of this quandary by the sound of a man’s scream. The cry was muffled by the misshapen door of The Frogs, but as several patrons began to jostle one another in an effort to rush out of th
e dim alehouse, the cries of alarm from the street rang more clearly. “Heermeister!” someone was screaming for his attention.
He struggled to stand, but his feet slipped on the rough dirt floor of the alehouse. Nearby, Burchard was already up and charging toward the door; Dietrich slapped his hand against the wobbly table, trying to brace himself. The damned table kept moving; his tankard fell over and rolled off the edge. He felt Sigeberht grab his arm, but shook off his bodyguard’s help. “I can damn well walk out of this noisome place myself,” he snarled. “No one is going to assist me.”
The sun lanced his eyes as he stepped out of The Frogs, and he raised a hand to cover his face. Forced to squint, he wiped sundappled tears from his eyes.
Burchard had drawn his sword and was standing beside a mewling man with an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. Dietrich blinked heavily, realized that the wounded man was one of his knights, and somewhat blearily, he swept his gaze across the street and took stock of the rest of his men. It took him a few seconds to realize what was missing from this wavering, dismal scene.
The horses were gone. The men he had left guarding them lay sprawled along the wall, not dead-though it might be better for them that they were-but clearly overwhelmed and beaten. They had been neatly and precisely bludgeoned; there was no blood on the wall or in the mud.
Recalling the trouncing his men had received at the bridge, Dietrich felt his face flush. His unsteadiness forgotten, he stalked over to the wounded man and kicked him heavily in the ribs. The man cried out and curled in on himself like a worm. The fletching of the arrow in his shoulder bobbed up and down.
“What happened?” Dietrich snarled.
“Heermeister,” Burchard said quietly, calling Dietrich’s attention away from the stricken man.
A little ways down the street, a man in a stained and threadbare robe sat on a horse.
“My bay stallion!” Dietrich exploded.
“I happened to them,” the man said. “Do I have your attention?” There was a chiseled look to the big man: expressive eyes, smile lines darkened by the grim set of his mouth, and a fierce defiance in his bearing. He held the stallion’s reins in one hand and, in the other, one of the arming swords that had formerly belonged to Dietrich’s knights.
“My undivided attention,” Dietrich replied. He rested his hands on the hilt of his sheathed sword, adopting a stance that suggested he was unimpressed. He heard a creak of leather at his side as Burchard shifted. Very well, he thought, every word that comes out of this braggart’s mouth is only going to increase his suffering.
“The sins of your order have not been forgotten,” the man said, “and you would do well to remember those are debts as yet unpaid.”
Burchard spat in the mud and began walking toward the horseman. The man shook the reins of the horse, and the animal took several mincing steps to one side. “Hold,” Dietrich called to his bodyguard, and when Burchard came to a stop, Dietrich continued. “I owe you nothing,” he sneered, “and it is you, having done violence to my men, who owes me a blood debt.”
The man laughed. “A blood debt? I have but given them a few knocks to remind them of what happens to sluggards who fall asleep while on duty. Surely you would discipline them similarly yourself, Heermeister.”
“I might,” Dietrich acknowledged, “but that decision is mine, and not yours.”
“Was it also your decision to send the priest with a false message?”
Dietrich stared hard at the rider, the fog now completely lifted from his eyes and thoughts, fingers lightly fondling the hilt of his sword.
The man returned his gaze, equally unflinching, daring him to reply. Fuming, Dietrich considered his response. This man was undoubtedly one of those arrogant Shield-Brethren bastards, and his question was nothing more than a blatant trap. He already knows the answer, Dietrich thought. If I agree with him, then I will be confessing to sowing discord. If I deny his words, then he will call me a liar in front of my men. The net result would be the same either way: the Shield-Brethren would have an excuse for enmity between the two orders.
This trap aggravated Dietrich more than the theft of his stallion. He raised his shoulders, took in a bored, long breath, and then dropped them, as if vexed by a wayward child. Then he struck a nonchalant, almost careless pose. How is that for an answer, you sanctimonious bastard? Despite this, however, his eyes darted about, searching for archers. He liked swift arrows no better than the next man.
The rider smiled, as if he had anticipated such a response. “A word of advice, then, Heermeister,” he called. “Pick your battles more wisely than did your predecessor.”
Dietrich clenched his sword’s pommel and pulled the blade a finger’s width from its scabbard. “You presumptuous whore’s son,” he spat.
The rider laughed. “Look to your men, Heermeister. I think we are done exchanging pleasantries.” His arm snapped forward, quick as a willow branch, and the arming sword flew through the air and embedded itself in the earth at Burchard’s feet.
The man then dug his heels into the barrel of his newly acquired mount and pulled the reins, bringing the horse about. “My thanks for the fine destriers,” he shouted as the stallion leaped into a gallop, mud and grime spattering in the horse’s wake.
“Heermeister-” Sigeberht had come up behind him. Dietrich whirled on his bodyguard with such violent motion that the tall Livonian took a step back.
“Let them go,” Dietrich snarled. “All of you will walk back to our compound, and that one”-he pointed at the man lying in the mud-“keeps that arrow in his arm until he arrives.” Perhaps the shock of the walk will kill him, he reflected bitterly. It would be the only excuse I’d need. As it was, this incident was only further humiliation.
He stalked toward The Frogs, rudely shoving past his bodyguard. “I will be here,” he said, “awaiting your return.”
“But,” Sigeberht began, “what of your safety?” He stood awkwardly in the street, hands hanging loosely at his sides.
“If the Shield-Brethren had wanted me dead,” Dietrich pointed out, “I question whether you would have been able to defend me. So why don’t you do something useful and fetch me a horse?”
He slammed the door behind him, cutting off the sight of his worthless men. Sinking into his private chair, he pressed his fingers against his forehead and massaged his hot skin.
Without a word, the tavern owner scuttled over and rooted around on the floor for Dietrich’s discarded tankard. Finding the vessel, he put it on the table, and with a trembling hand, he poured a full measure. Dietrich waited until the man had finished before he swung his arm and knocked the tankard flying. Ale spattered the nervous man, and his tongue flickered against his flaccid lips.
“Do you really expect me to drink from a dirty tankard?” Dietrich inquired, a deadly stillness in his voice. Shivering with fear, the tavern owner darted off to find a more suitable drinking vessel. Dietrich sank back in his chair, fingers on his forehead again.
Returning to the chapter house on horseback was both swifter and more exhilarating than a slow trudge through the woods, and Andreas caught up with the younger members of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae not far from the ruins of Koischwitz. This was what they were meant to do, and what the order excelled at: decisively besting better armed or armored men in combat, riding wild across open lands on the horses taken from their defeated enemies, and reveling in the intoxicating freedom that came from openly defying a foe who thought their order weak and complacent. Such a victory as they had accomplished would restore the morale of the others and would serve to remind them all what their roles in this world were. The assembled mass of their enemies could rise against them, and all it would take to beat them back was a strong arm and a strong will. We have been idle too long, Andreas thought, laughing into the wind. We have forgotten who we are.
Passing into the sanctuary of the woods, their horses slowed to a steady trot as the track became narrow. Andreas inhaled deeply, sucking in the s
cented air of the woods to calm his racing heart. Though the thrill of besting the Livonians was still bright in his blood, it was dangerous to let such enthusiasm guide him completely. He must retain some clarity as to what might follow from this victory. It was a minor skirmish in a much larger campaign, and his enemy-for all his clumsy senselessness-would adapt to his plans.
As his heart’s rapid drumbeat slowed, Andreas took in the richness of the forest. An endless number of drifting motes outlined beams of sunlight that cut between the trees like blessings from Heaven.
We are these specks of dust, he reflected, and it is the design of the Divine Light that brings us together. We cannot see the whole of the Light, but in our passing, we give it form.
It was an idea not unlike an old story he had once heard at Petraathen, one of the oft-told tales that spoke of the Shield-Brethren’s origins.
Andreas paused near the jagged trunk of an old tree, felled long ago by ill weather. Even from the height of his saddle, the place where the crowning branches had been snapped off rose well above his head, and the stump carved a gnomon’s shadow out of the sunlight flowing through the hole in the forest canopy above. Even dead, the old tree seemed eternal, and Andreas was a minute speck drifting in its sheltering shade.
Folk legends made the forest a fearful place, home to evil spirits, and only the truly capable or the desperate braved the woods. In daylight, staring up at the ragged trunk, Andreas was reminded of the wonder and the fear he’d not felt for years; the tree, though no longer growing, was still alive, covered in a stippled pattern of moss, its jutting, broken heartwood the host to all manner of small creatures. Insects buzzed in the shade, a low thrum beneath the celestial chorus of hidden birds. Andreas closed his eyes, and this world of faint voices opened up to him, a mystical realm that could only be heard when all the voices spoke at once.
Styg’s horse ambled past him, the young man’s leg brushing his as the horses jostled, and Andreas put aside his meditative calm. As he flicked the reins, his eyes fell on the roots of the jagged tree. They lay exposed, contorted like a mass of thick vines around a piece of aged granite too massive to be sundered by their persistent and perpetual grip. He saw the tree now as a pillar of stone, retained by loyal roots. In his thoughts, stone and tree coexisted.
