“I gave instructions I was to be left undisturbed,” Dietrich growled.
“Forgive me, Heermeister,” Gelther murmured, “but a runner has arrived, and I thought you should know—the arena has been reopened. The Circus has begun anew.”
* * *
“What about the Persian with the club?” Zug suggested. “He’s immense and dangerous, and the guards are afraid of him.”
Kim sat across from him in the tent, face set with a frown.
“He’s also been a beneficiary of the Khan’s favoritism before,” Kim said.
Zug thought the Flower Knight was far too picky, too discerning in his opinions of whom they should and should not approach in their endeavor. Zug feared that if his friend had his way, when the time came, their group would not be nearly large enough.
“As was I,” Zug said, his expression drawn into a tight grimace. “It is a cage, and a trap, and I would have been glad to be rid of it at any time.”
The Flower Knight looked haggard in a way Zug had not seen him appear since the early days of their captivity, before acceptance of their situation had settled in and allowed him to keep the calm for which he’d become known since. “Different favoritism, and you know that,” Kim murmured.
“You don’t like his fury,” Zug added. “It’s no different from my own.” He smiled wryly. Every so often he couldn’t resist the opportunity to poke at his friend’s peculiar sense of honor.
Kim was a good man—a better one than him, perhaps—but he had also not endured the shame that Zug had carried since even before Onghwe Khan had taken them.
“Fair enough,” the Flower Knight murmured. “I don’t like it. Too much fervor is a risk, even if the heart behind it is loyal and longs for freedom.”
“There is the one who fights with the hatchets and the knives,” Zug said, letting the previous remark slide. “He has more than enough calm to balance a fiery temper. And thanks to you, we have enough hotheads already.”
“Will he talk to us?” Kim asked, lifting his brows.
“Not to me. Our fight was painful. Honor. Strength and youth...skill.” The world had taken some time to come into focus as the lasting effects of the liquor departed from Zug’s body. He mulled all these points while prodding a broken tooth with his tongue. “But he might speak with you.”
“He doesn’t know me,” Kim said with a shrug.
The splitting pain in Zug’s head that had racked his every waking moment in the aftermath of the loss to the Rose Knight had dulled weeks ago to a low ache that was finally fading in the warming prospect light of the task he and Kim had set for themselves. “That’s exactly why you stand a better chance than I do,” he grunted irritably. “I’m not convinced he likes anybody.”
Kim raised an eyebrow. The bruises on his face had not completely faded, and they gave it a motley look. “I didn’t know he detested others that much. But I will talk to him. Quiet is good, and he’s one of the best at that. I wonder how the Khan managed to take him in the first place?”
“Carefully,” Zug replied. “We shouldn’t waste time, so we’ll do it like last time. You find him, bring him, and I will wait.”
To hold at bay, for now at least, the false solace of wine required that he focus every moment on the task at hand. The instant that focus was lost, the longing for the wine and the memories he’d used it to suppress would return like an angry, winged spirit clawing at his heart, shrieking in his dreams, tugging at him to seek out the old ways of forgetting past shame, long-ago failure.
“Agreed?” he asked.
“Agreed.” The Flower Knight rose and exited into the gray day.
* * *
Dietrich had armored himself and now sat astride his recaptured horse with a new sense of purpose. The reactivation of the Circus was a development that had slowly but surely filled his thoughts, outlining a path to greater successes—and ultimately to the vengeance he craved. When the news had first arrived, his reaction had been the familiar indignation borne of Mongols pitting captured Christians, even heretics, against pagan warriors, but that had rapidly cooled as he saw the possibilities. He would soon set about the task of choosing one of his better fighters for assignment to the lists.
First, however, he had to see where the other soldiers of Christendom stood.
Riding through Hünern, Dietrich took only passing note of the city’s sad state. He took care to ride past The Frogs en route to his destination. There, he paused and regarded the site of his embarrassment with cold, heavy-lidded eyes, searing this miserable place into his memory. Another marker in a long list.
It helped to remind oneself of the tally of foes in need of punishing.
Then he swiveled the horse aside and trotted ahead, Burchard and Sigeberht coming up swiftly behind to keep pace with him. People dashed out of his way, throwing themselves to the side of the road to avoid the pounding crush of hooves. Dietrich paid them no more heed than he would ants beneath his boot, glad only that they at least remembered the respect that was appropriate for one of higher station.
They passed out of Hünern and rode across open lands toward where the Weidlache wound through the landscape. There was an old estate near the riverbank that dated back to Roman times. The Mongols had put the entire place to the torch when they passed through, after killing the occupants, whoever they had been—doubtless wealthy nobles who refused to join or cooperate with them.
This estate had stood gray and mostly empty—there were always half-starved squatters around—and no doubt haunted, until another order had moved in and made it their chapter house.
It was here that Dietrich and his men rode to find the commander of the Knights Templar.
The Templars had made good their fortifications, Dietrich reflected as they approached the makeshift stronghold. It was not a castle and could not repel a siege, but of all those orders that had staked out compounds around the ruins of Hünern, the Templars had made the most of their position and would perhaps evoke at least some hesitation in the mind of an ambitious brigand or tax collector.
A pair of sergeants stood guard at the gate, spear tips gleaming and prominent. They glowered as Dietrich and his small group approached.
“I am Dietrich von Grüningen, Heermeister of the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae,” he said, his voice friendly, calm, and casual, rather than demanding or threatening. Let them think we are equals. “Who commands here?”
The guards inspected them and decided they were no immediate threat. “Leuthere de Montfort commands our brothers,” the leftmost guard said. “He is currently in conference with Emmeran of the Knights of St. John. Pass, sirs, but watch your arms, that you be not mistaken for goads or agents. You will be met.”
Dietrich smiled, nodded, and then sucked in a breath and rode through, Burchard and Sigeberht keeping pace. The two guards watched them closely, and Dietrich saw one call over a squire and send him running toward the compound.
Shortly thereafter, other squires took their horses and they were escorted inside.
The interior of the place gave testament to the fires that had gutted it, but here and there amid the blackened stones, bits of old finery could be seen, like rare flowers poking through the floor of a burned forest. Dietrich and his men waited quietly just inside the entryway in the company of a stern-faced knight in the unmarred white surcoat and red cross of the Templars. So close, Dietrich felt the old bitterness rising in him once more. His own order had it in them to be as great, if not mightier, than the holders of this ruined house.
After Schaulen, who could say how far back that ascendancy had been pushed?
Burchard was also watching the Templar, calm assessment in his eyes. God’s hierarchies demanded a certain competitiveness, Dietrich reflected, and even allies sharing his great cloak could feel a certain animosity. At least his bodyguard was paying attention now. That was encouraging.
Dietrich’s contemplation was aborted by the approach of another Templar, this one older and harder faced
. “Leuthere will see you now,” he said and gestured for Dietrich to follow.
Leuthere de Montfort was known to Dietrich only by reputation, but that was sufficiently lively and widespread to merit respect. He came from nobility, though in lieu of dedicating himself to the family name, he had opted instead to devote himself to the martial orders in the service of Christ. He was known for courage, zealousness, and an almost holy imperturbability in the face of adversity.
Sitting opposite him now, after having seen him but a handful of times at a distance, the man up close was precisely what Dietrich had expected.
“I am honored to meet you in person, Leuthere de Montfort,” Dietrich said, all casualness subdued, lowering his voice and deliberately intoning respect. As this man obviously warrants.
“Dietrich von Grüningen,” Leuthere replied, his face as stolid and almost as gray as a chunk of battered stone. “The honor is mine.”
They sat upon wood stools before the fire-blackened stones of a large hearth, its once-fine carvings now reduced to charred, grotesque mockeries. The whole interior was redolent of recent scouring fires, and perhaps even burned bodies. The Templars did not seem to mind—or even to notice.
Dietrich was directly opposite Leuthere. The third point of the triad they formed was occupied by Emmeran, commander of the contingent of Hospitallers in Legnica. He was of taller stature than Leuthere but projected less strength. In the present company, whose devotion was supposed to be absolute, Emmeran seemed strangely removed from the affairs at hand.
“We were discussing the matter of the Circus of Swords when you arrived,” Emmeran said more quietly. “You have heard the news?”
“I have just assigned one of my best fighters to the lists,” Dietrich replied. “I had hoped to speak with you both on the subject.” He paused and folded his hands in his lap. “What do you believe our purpose is in being here?”
“Something I myself have wondered,” Leuthere said with impenetrable calm. “When we came here, it was with the understanding that our swords were needed to keep this accursed Khan from laying waste to Christendom. Until the Shield-Brethren of Petraathen had the audacity to challenge the silence of the arena, my brothers and I were contemplating departure. After all, we are not sufficiently strong to lay siege to the Mongol encampments, and without the arena, we have had little reason to remain.”
Was that a faint hint of admiration in Leuthere’s voice for the Shield-Brethren—or consternation at their actions? Dietrich could not tell. Damn the man’s calm! Medusa herself could not render him more unreadable.
In the absence of certainty, he tried to steer their opinions toward concern, perhaps even alarm.
“The Shield-Brethren are not to be trusted,” he said. “They have already committed assault against my own order, and their actions at the First Field were rash—exceedingly rash. They have given us an opportunity to stall this Khan through bloodshed in his arenas, true enough, but that does not mean they are deserving of our support.”
“The matter of the horses, I had heard of that,” Leuthere said and looked aside placidly, as if discussing a matter of hounds and hares. “They were returned to you, were they not?”
This man is a veritable wall, Dietrich thought. I cannot tell what wheels turn behind his words. Is he a friend or a foe?
“Yes,” Dietrich replied. “Albeit in a manner that did little to demonstrate common courtesy, much less respect. There is also the matter of my battered men. But I am more concerned with the immediate matter of the Circus of Swords and knowing where the other orders stand than with seeking restitution for a possible insult,” Dietrich lied. “My words should be taken as caution against putting too much trust in the overly impulsive. It would behoove those of us who prefer a more disciplined plan to show solidarity rather than follow a trail left by the rash and the audacious, don’t you think?”
“Fairly asserted,” Leuthere said. He turned his cold eyes to Emmeran, seeking his counsel.
“I am not convinced this ordeal is more than a mummer’s farce,” Emmeran told them in softer tones. The Hospitaller seemed in all ways a man possessed of less verve than Dietrich and Leuthere.
God in Heaven, Dietrich thought, you are a warrior in the service of the Almighty. Where is your passion?
“We cannot leave now,” Dietrich replied more sharply than he’d intended. “The Pope has called upon us to be here. We cannot back down from such a command and such a charge.”
Emmeran raised his eyebrows. Leuthere was silent. “Forgive me, Heermeister Dietrich,” Emmeran said, “but I would have thought that, of all of us, you would understand the value of discretion and caution, given the tragedy that befell your predecessor.”
Schaulen. It is always about Schaulen. Dietrich felt the rage building inside like boiling water over an open hearth. “That was different,”
he said. He could not, must not, lose control in front of these two men. He had several leaders yet to see, and if word should get around that he was rattled and could not hide his anger, he would find himself truly without allies in a place that was already unfriendly to his order.
“Nevertheless, your point is well taken,” Dietrich said, laying his gaze on Emmeran. Coward. Sit and contemplate, if you like. Muse on the weak and the sick, while the Mongol host rolls over Europe and the Shield-Brethren bring our efforts to naught. I and mine will be doing something about it.
He cleared his throat. “Caution and discretion are not without their place.”
“You and yours mean to stay, then?” Leuthere asked. Whatever motivated Leuthere de Montfort, try as he might, Dietrich could not see behind the Templar’s mask.
“Yes. Somebody must encourage a different direction than that taken by our rash, so-called knights of the Virgin Defender. If others will not step up to that task, then I and mine will fill the void. If God wills it, others will then follow. It is a blessed path, and righteous.”
Whom God favored was not even a question in Dietrich’s mind. The Shield-Brethren had not, he strongly suspected, abandoned their pagan roots. A weed with beautiful branches was still a weed. Pull it from the earth and the roots would appear the same. Somehow, someway, Dietrich would do just that.
“I encourage you to speak to the other orders,” Leuthere said, indirectly indicating that the conversation had reached its conclusion. He extended a hand to Dietrich. His grip was powerful. “I thank you, Dietrich, for conveying what information you have. You have given me much to consider. I pray you find the way you seek. If God favors you, others will surely follow in your track.”
“Go with God,” Emmeran murmured and extended his own hand. This grip was also surprisingly strong.
“His will is always foremost in my thoughts,” Dietrich added, bidding both men farewell. Burchard and Sigeberht awaited him in the fire-blackened entryway, faces lighting with curiosity as he approached. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand as their horses were retrieved. His mood had sobered somewhat as he climbed into the saddle, but the humiliations continued to rankle, and the relative lack of progress here was unsettling.
Still, it had not been without its benefits. If he could show the worth of his own course, Leuthere had implied, the Templars might follow, and they would be a great strength to have at his back. Nevertheless, the battlefield could change rapidly in a short time, taking away one’s advantages and handing them to his enemies.
Dietrich remembered Emmeran’s words, much as they galled him, and now took them to heart.
As they rode out of the compound and headed back to their own chapter house, he silently vowed under the eyes of God that here and now would not be another Schaulen.
Come blood and fire, disaster or storm, he would triumph.
28
Pillow Fight
FIRE RAINED FROM the sky.
Munokhoi’s alarm had created a chaotic surge around the Khagan’s ger as guards tried to push their way through the confusion of concubines, ambassadors, and other guests. Many of
those gathered at the feast were too stunned to do anything more than stand with mouths agape, like herds of simple-minded oxen. As the burning arrows began to fall, they began to react, but for many, it was too late. Munokhoi’s voice was quickly drowned out by the shrieks and screams of the injured and dying.
A courtier with a flaming arrow jutting from his left eye grabbed at Gansukh as the young warrior fought against the buffeting panic of the crowd. The courtier gibbered at Gansukh, his words lost in the sizzling cackle of the fire devouring his face and hair. Gansukh shoved the man away before the fire could leap to his own robes, and the courtier spun away, scattering flecks of flame.
In the distance, a tiny spray of orange light leaped into the sky. The hill, Gansukh realized, his pulse hammering in his ears. The enemy was on higher ground, using the difference in elevation to increase the range of their archers. Not too far from where he had set up his tent. His shoulders tightened, and he cast about for some shelter as the lights in the sky grew brighter.
Hissing, the fiery rain fell again, but the arrows landed among the vast sea of tents that lay behind the open area where the feast had been arranged. The archers had shifted their assault, and Gansukh grimly noted their efficiency. The fire arrows were meant to cause confusion and to divert the efforts of the Khagan’s guards toward saving the tents and supplies. Split your enemy, he thought, divide his strength.
A trio of concubines ran from a nearby tent, the hems of their robes on fire, and they stamped a frantic dance in an effort to put the flames out. Guards were still streaming past Gansukh, jangling and clattering as they jostled one another in their rush to protect the Khagan. Munokhoi’s alarm was now being carried by many voices, counterpoint to the crackling roar of a half dozen fires. Gansukh spied a few soldiers wrestling barrels of water toward the burning tents.
The Mongoliad: Book Two Page 33
