The Mongoliad: Book One

by Neal Stephenson; Erik Bear; Greg Bear; Joseph Brassey; E. D. Debirmingham; Cooper Moo; Mark Teppo

  “They’ll have protection,” Taran said.

  Roger stared at Cnán resentfully. She glared back. A wry grimace came over his face. He looked away for a moment, then glanced back and nodded by way of apology. “It’s not good news,” he explained. “Istvan was one of our bravest and most loyal.”

  “Mohi broke him,” Finn said, in rough Latin.

  “Illarion saw his family killed and did not break,” Feronantus reminded them. “We can ill afford to lose anyone. I will send a party of three with Cnán—Eleázar, Percival, and Raphael. She will track Istvan, and the three of you will persuade him to rejoin us.”

  “With respect, the girl is no rider,” Eleázar said. “Should we get into trouble—”

  “For that reason,” Feronantus said, “she will do her utmost to keep you out of trouble. Which is how I prefer it.”

  And that was final. All the knights looked on Cnán, some with hooded eyes.

  Cnán had not expected to be hobbled by a trio of knights. She stated clearly, in a piping voice, that she could not range wide enough to find clear paths and also accompany Istvan’s search party. “He might return on his own,” she added.

  Feronantus waved this aside. “You’ve done a fair amount of ranging already, have you not? He’s a big man, on a big horse, with a distinctive hoof and gait. You will find him quicker than we could, and Percival, Raphael, and Eleázar will jess and hood him, if necessary, before he attracts more attention. We shall tarry in this place for one day, mending our britches.”

  Cnán suppressed a smile. This was Feronantus’s all-purpose phrase covering not just britches-mending but sock-darning, meat-drying, herb-gathering, and all the other chores that, if they did them today, would enable them to ride hard tomorrow.

  “Then,” Feronantus said, “we shall head east on our present course. Kiev is—at most—a fortnight’s ride. If you don’t find him in three days, return to our track. Our trail will be embarrassingly obvious to one of your talents. We need you, Cnán, to show us a safe route through the outskirts of Kiev. All there is likely misery and confusion.”

  “We should not go to that accursed place at all,” Roger remarked.

  “Ah, but we must,” Percival said. “It is a matter of honor.” But Feronantus, weary of this argument between friends, held up both hands to silence them.

  This region as a whole was inclined to marshiness, and of late the band of would-be Khan killers had been skirting the southern borders of a broad wetland—a mariscus, in Feronantus’s favored tongue—that covered more ground than some European kingdoms. Cnán knew as much because she had recently spent the better part of two months working her way across it from east to west. For the most part, they had been good months, since edible plants were as common in the bogs as Mongols were scarce. With no assistance from humans, plant life sorted itself out from low to high, according to its preferences regarding drainage.

  In the bottoms, reeds grew thick and green in rain-swollen waterways; low, shrubby willows populated a patchwork of sandy islands; and other water-hardy stuff grew in such profusion that only the most wretched fugitives were to be found there. Merely to dwell in such a place was to confess oneself an outlaw or a witch. The valleys and ravines that drained into it were choked with trees, generally too small and mean to be of interest to any, save charcoal burners.

  The rolling lands above, while hardly high and dry, were at least suitable for cultivation, striped with fields where people still lived, otherwise open grassland that was perfect for conveyance of Mongols.

  Cnán favored none of these fens and banks as routes for the party’s expedition. But she soon discovered that, through these wetlands, there was often a buffer—sometimes miles across, sometimes only a few paces wide—between the impassable woods of the damp ravines and the open farm country where trees grew thick enough to provide cover but not so dense as to impede progress.

  She had schooled these knights in the way of traveling along the edges of the less brambly forests, slicing briskly over open land when she provided a favorable report but rarely straying more than a few moments’ gallop from the cover of the trees.

  The country along Istvan’s likeliest course of travel alternated between stands of oaks and meadows, broken by the odd low rolling hill and a mottle of bogs and small, clean lakes. Rarely, mounds and crowds of rounded boulders poked up through forest and field, as if dropped from the pouches of giants. Cnán knew some of these as hideaways for robbers; on her long trek west, venturing up from the great marsh to filch apples or raid farmers’ root cellars, she had found their leavings on several occasions at the entrances to the tumbled boulders.

  The hideaways were empty now. That was not a good sign. Robbers knew when the pickings were too dangerous.

  Raphael kept mostly silent as they rode, moving steadily beside her. Eleázar, with his heavily inflected Latin, was more voluble and quick with plaints—to her irritation at first. But as the day wore on she came to understand that it was simply his way, and the way of his people, to say what was on his mind.

  Eleázar had been the last of the group to arrive at the chapter house outside of Legnica, and she knew the least about him. During the first day or two of the journey, she had rarely been able to suppress her amusement over the preposterous size of his weapon—a two-handed sword that was slightly taller than he was. It took him forever simply to draw the thing, hand over hand, out of the long sheath slung along his back, and the other knights had much fun at his expense, discussing how, in the event of an attack, they would set up a defensive perimeter around Eleázar so that he would have time to draw and poise his sword, hopefully before the rest of them were dead.

  Percival also kept his thoughts to himself, and dark thoughts they might have been; he rarely smiled.

  The first run of tracks they encountered was perhaps two days old. Cnán dismounted from her mare—the only mare in the group, as the knights preferred stallions—and knelt in the sun-dappled mud and grass of a narrow meadow. Raphael and Percival joined her, kneeling on the other side of the run, two steps back. Mongols at this late stage of their campaign often rode horses other than steppe ponies; war, as Feronantus had observed, was hard on horses, and armies continually replenished their stock. When Mongols rode larger and more complaisant Western horses, the combination made for unique tracks. Unhappy mounts tended to sidle when given unfamiliar prods or spoken to in strange tongues.

  Cnán pointed out the disarray of tracks to Raphael, who nodded. Percival bent to observe splattered remnants of the stale, less than a day old. He lifted mud to his nose and curled his lip. “Could be a farm beast or sumpter. Lowly black bones are left with the least spirited mounts.”

  Cnán knew that gelded animals could serve well in battle, but these knights, by long tradition, preferred stallions and were tough to convince. Mongols, on the other hand, rode mares into battle—sometimes mares in heat, perfectly capable of distracting stallions.

  Two of the riders in this group, however, had been mounted on destriers that met the knights’ full approval, likely stallions from the stock of a local voivode. Their stale cut deep into the mud and smelled pungent. The tracks showed that the horses were frisky but contented enough and their riders adept.

  She thought that a fair sign that a pair of dukes or their minions were being protected by the Mongols, much as the fur trader had his cohort. Betrayers of their people—opportunists. Survivors.

  No wonder Istvan was on a rampage.

  Percival walked away twenty paces and followed the verge. Their horses watched with ears cocked, then shook their heads and bent to pick at the weeds and grass. Eleázar, quite rightly, pushed them away from a growth of white-flowering creepers. No need for sick or drunken mounts.

  Cnán summed up the facts to Raphael as they watched Percival. “Twelve riders,” she concluded. “Mongols or Tartars. Of middling discipline, bored by their duties. But they are accompanied by two voivode—or at least local officials riding noble horses.
Possibly tax collectors or surveyors. Not prisoners.”

  “Good,” Raphael said. He smiled at her skill.

  “Surveyors?” Eleázar asked sharply. But the look on his face was baffled rather than skeptical.

  “The invaders measure their lands and count their wealth,” Raphael said. “They plan to stay.”

  Percival rejoined them. “Istvan watched them from the woods,” he said. “Then he rode after. He’s turned wolf.”

  No more needed to be said. Cnán also went to the verge to study the tracks of Istvan’s roan, and when she returned, they mounted. The woods here were thick with berries and nettles, the ground boggy, which discouraged passage by riders and possibly all but the local bears. Earlier, Cnán had caught the spoor of several of those. One, interestingly enough, appeared to have briefly tracked Istvan.

  “A regular caravan,” Raphael observed. “Whom shall we greet first?”

  Eleázar and Percival suggested they follow Istvan and not the tax collectors.

  “We will meet with both soon enough,” Cnán said.

  Raphael and Percival saw her meaning. The dense woods would soon bring quarry and prey together. Did Istvan truly believe he could outfight such a group?

  Eleázar took this news glumly.

  Percival nodded. “Istvan is our quarry. It matters not whom he hunts—for now.”

  “He rides quickly,” Eleázar observed.

  “And so will we, now that we’ve found his trail.”

  Cnán had thought she knew the general lay of this country, but she was taken by surprise when the forest spread wide around a shallow oxbow. The greater width of riverbed was a long swale interrupted by mounds of boulders. The swale ran generally west to east, and their little party had fetched up along its southern verge. It did not have a bank as such, for the floodplain was broad, interrupted by a complicated plait of rain-fed streams and willow marsh.

  The forest kept well back from this intermittent course, but several farmers had lately taken advantage of the rich soil, and of not having to clear trees, to lay out fields of green oats. They had plowed around the cromlech-like rocks and between the low, damp runnels thick with reeds.

  It was late in the day. A warm breeze sprang up from the southwest, spreading waves across the reeds. A low habitation was visible on the opposite side of the river, about a verst away. There was no sign of human activity. Perhaps the locals had planted, then hid—from both tax collectors and war parties.

  “There must be a ford we can use,” Raphael said, scanning up and down the bank.

  “Let’s not linger,” Percival said. “No high vantage, lots of opportunities for sudden attack.”

  Before them the riverbed was overgrown with tall, winding stands of reed and willows through which riders moving east or west, following sandy or shingled shallows, could pass unseen. Warriors, even mounted ones, could rely on scrub-hidden pickets and spring out with complete surprise. Higher banks and even low mounds complicated an already confused landscape—the worst place imaginable for tracking, finding, and avoiding surprises.

  Cnán surveyed the skies above this tangle and spotted the greatest concentration of crows and other birds—starlings, blackbirds, even robins—wheeling to the east. No buzzards—yet. She sniffed the air, but the westerly breeze was unhelpful. “Horses and cows that way,” she said. “Another bigger farm, maybe. Birds pick the dung.”

  Eleázar gave a low whistle. “Can you tell whether it’s cattle or horses from here?” he joked.

  Cnán pursed her lips.

  Percival rode between them, wheeled, and looked south into the trees from which they had only just emerged. “Devil’s own woods,” he said. “The fur traders must have crossed—and Istvan behind them. Let us go and find whatever ford they used.”

  They arranged their tack and gear for a crossing.

  “Istvan won’t fight us, will he?” Eleázar asked.

  “Those hellish mushrooms—” Raphael began but didn’t finish his thought. Percival looked downriver, then spun his horse about and suddenly plunged ahead toward the sun-warmed side of a boulder pile.

  The rest followed.

  “There’s a war party on that hill,” he explained. “Thirty or forty of them. Sun’s in their eyes. Don’t see us yet, I hope. We’re the prey now.”

  They skirted into the long shadow of the outcropping and gazed east through the sheltering fronds of tall reeds. Percival was right. The war party consisted mostly of Mongols, riding an assortment of horses.

  “The main body, as Illarion predicted,” Eleázar said.

  “Maybe. They’re going the same way we are—maybe even tracking us. We can’t go back.”

  “Following Istvan too,” Raphael said, and it was difficult to tell whether this was meant as question or assertion.

  Percival shook his head. “We can use these rocks to our own advantage—unless they track as well as Cnán. But we must warn Feronantus.” He struggled with a difficult decision: whom to send, whom to keep here to protect their guide and their doctor—whom to sacrifice. He stroked his horse’s neck, his brows drawn tightly together. “The last bloody thing we need is a pitched battle,” he said.

  “Not much choice. The forest walls us in on both sides. We can’t escape into the woods unless we dismount,” Raphael observed.

  “We can’t walk all the way east!” Eleázar said.

  “You have another idea?”

  “Outride them!” Eleázar said.

  For the first time in quite a while, a trace of a smile stole across Percival’s lips. “Outride a company of Mongols?”

  “We can do it,” Eleázar insisted, “if we gather some spares.”

  “Spares,” Percival repeated.

  Raphael, to this point, had been silent. He cleared his throat and glanced significantly at Cnán.

  She was ready for it. Some part of her was already saying good riddance to these heedless adventurers. What was an adventure, anyway? To any normal person, a problem. A disaster. Only the rich and the foolish would actually seek one out. “I’m faster without you,” she said, as if agreeing. She dismounted and handed the reins to Eleázar. “A spare,” she explained.

  “But, my lady—” said Percival.

  She sneered at being called that. “I’ll cut through the woods on foot and reach Feronantus by morning. The rest of you, do as you will. If you lie low, they’ll probably pass you by. If they don’t kill Istvan, you can do it.”

  “Kill one of our Order? Are you in command now?” Eleázar cried.

  She ignored him—as did Percival. “It would be best if they learn nothing of Feronantus,” Percival said. “Killing Istvan may not be enough. Perhaps we here need to make a stand and die to save the rest.”

  Cnán squinted up at the knight. Truly, he seemed happy to make it easy for his death to find him. Perhaps he was as crazy as Istvan. “If the Mongols pass,” Cnán said primly, “and there’s no fight, we can join up at the end of this tangle, beyond the farms. I’m pretty sure there’s a route directly east from there.”

  “Hold up,” Raphael said, rising in his saddle. He pointed north. “More riders coming out of nowhere. Those damned reeds. They’re surrounding the farmstead on the other side of the swale. Nine, ten…and…another formation, rising up like the spawn of dragon’s teeth. A patrol. Breaking off and coming this way.”

  A moment passed while they all absorbed that news.

  “No,” Raphael said, “I’m wrong. They too are looking for a ford. Going to rejoin the big group on the hill.”

  The others watched in silence as their doom closed in from two, perhaps three, sides.

  Percival leaned over Cnán. “Go,” he said. “Go now. This will not get better.”

  CHAPTER 10:

  THE ARCHERY LESSON

  Lian waited for Gansukh within the enveloping embrace of the willow. The tiny leaves didn’t hide her completely, but the drape of its boughs was enough to give her some semblance of security. Plus the shadows were getti
ng longer… She sighed as she flicked tiny fallen leaves from her hair, regretting she had opted to wear it down. She’d told him to meet her again before the sun set, and now it was getting perilously close to slipping behind the bulk of the palace.

  She wasn’t supposed to be here, not without an escort.

  The garden still stank of blood. The gardeners were still working on a flowerbed when she had first arrived, and she had hurried past them, barely sparing them an imperious glance that would—hopefully—suggest they turn their eyes elsewhere. Also, she hadn’t wanted to look too closely at what they were doing.

  Something had died in that flowerbed. She’d heard from one of the Chinese servants that the main course for the banquet had been shot just a few hours earlier. In this garden. It had died right here.

  A momentary shudder ran through her frame. No better place to learn how to fight, she mused.

  Lian had pressed the servant woman for details, and she had given a very satisfactory account. Everyone was talking about the young warrior and his bow. She hadn’t dared to ask the servant woman about Munokhoi’s reaction; while there would be satisfaction in hearing this tale, Lian knew what to expect: Munokhoi would be even more on his guard against this intruder from the Great Khan’s older brother. Her task would be even trickier now. Gansukh had been right this morning: she was afraid for him.

  Lian sighed with relief as she spotted him, and she rustled the willow boughs to get his attention.

  Gansukh approached and parted the boughs carefully. “Why are you hiding in there?” He cocked an eyebrow. “If you’re trying to look like a beautiful painting, don’t bother. I’m not that sophisticated.” He seemed more at ease, pleased with the day’s events.

  “I don’t have free rein to walk the compound at night like you,” she snapped.