The Mongoliad: Book Two

by Neal Stephenson

  The rabbi seemed to find this interesting but had little to say about it. Which was to be expected, and which Raphael considered to be excellent progress for one evening. More importantly, they were now offered hospitality, and some social presence, for this rabbi presided over the synagogue and invited them to make themselves comfortable in an old disused house. Some great family had abandoned it centuries ago and moved to Antioch or Jerusalem, and the locals had been using it as a barn. After their many nights under the sweeping starry sky, having a log-and-wattle roof over their heads—even though knocked through with holes and packed with starlings, who peppered them with droppings—seemed like luxury.

  The next day, Finn and Rædwulf and Eleázar caught up with them and reported that they had seen Vera to the river and observed her journey to its opposite side in a fisherman’s boat. A prearranged smoke signal proved that she had reconnected with the other Shield-Maidens. They had retraced their steps up into the hills with care, leaving Finn behind in places of concealment to look for any persons who might be tracking them. Finn had seen nothing.

  That evening, a longer discussion took place, with Raphael now serving as an interpreter between Feronantus and the rabbi—whose name was Aaron. Again, much time was expended on pleasantries, and Raphael had to bridle his impatience by reminding himself that if they could strike some sort of deal that would get them into a Silk Road caravan, it would save them many weeks of aimless travel in bitter country. They crept infinitesimally closer to explaining what it was that they really wanted. But it was plain from the look on Aaron’s face and the nature of his questions that he was baffled by these Franks and their inexplicable desire to range far into the East.

  The next day was spent as they always spent rest days, in mending their equipment, looking after their horses, and obtaining the necessaries for the next leg of the journey. Rabbi Aaron had gone on a journey of his own—since rabbis were scarce, he had to range across a fair territory—and so they dined in their house on food purchased from local hunters and went to bed early.

  The following day, Aaron came back to town in the company of a relatively prosperous-looking Khazar merchant and let it be known that they would continue the discussion that evening.

  The affluent merchant—it was too much of a stretch to describe him as rich—seemed to be just what they were looking for in the way of someone who knew his way around the caravan business. Little happened during their first encounter, the purpose of which, evidently, was to give this man—whose name was Benjamin—an opportunity to size up the mysterious Franks. But it was clearly a propitious sign that the rabbi had bothered to summon such a person, and so they bided their time and redoubled their preparations the next day.

  That turned out to be the Sabbath, and so nothing at all happened, but on the morrow, Rabbi Aaron and Benjamin turned up at their house in the middle of the day, seemingly eager to continue the discussion.

  And that discussion went quite well for about an hour. At which point Vera, covered with blood and bandages, staggered through the open door, lurched into their midst, and collapsed on the floor.

  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 Eleázar 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?” Cnán 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 Grüningen 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 Grüningen 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 the 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 thin
k 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.”