There was a herd of steppe deer to the east, and he chased them until he was close enough to pick out individual animals. He counted them twice, letting his horse slow to a trot, and once he was satisfied with the number, he pulled his horse south. Three dozen deer were an interesting statistic, but they were no threat to the company.
He rode south for awhile, squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun. There was a dark line stretching across the southeast, and he watched it warily. While he was a single rider against the immense backdrop of the steppe, he was not entirely invisible. Sharp-eyed Mongol scouts could see him as soon as he spotted them.
He spotted a spur of rock to the west and angled his horse in that direction. The outcropping was a line of gnarled stone that protruded enough out of the ground to create a ripple in the landscape. The ground rose up around the ridge and dropped away slightly behind it; overall, the stones didn’t tower more than the height of a pair of men, one standing on the shoulders of the other. A line of spruce, like the wispy beards sported by many Mongolians, trailed behind the ridge, and Haakon suspected he would find some sort of pool at the base of the ridge. During the spring and summer, it would contain a tepid layer of warm rainwater; during the winter months, it would be filled with icy slush.
The basin was where he expected to find it, and he left his horse to drink its fill and munch on the nearby grasses as he quickly climbed the rock face. The top of the tallest rock wasn’t much more than a pace across and the stone was cracked into three sections. He jammed his toes deeper into the crevices along the side of the rock and leaned across the top, trying to find the least jagged places to rest his elbows. He didn’t want to present himself as an oddity of the landscape by standing up, but his somewhat precarious relationship with the rock allowed him to scan the horizon from an elevated location.
The dark line to the southeast was thicker, and as he watched it, he spotted a few other dots moving to and from the squalid line. He was pretty sure it was a Mongol war party, and he glanced up at the sun to gauge how many hours of daylight were left. They might make it by nightfall, he decided.
He descended from the rock and retrieved his horse, the more pressing realization of what he had seen thrumming in his brain. A half day.
That’s all the lead they had on the Mongols.
His horse was annoyed at being pulled away from the moist grasses and he had to slap it on the hindquarters a few times before it finally started to run.
He slipped back into the simple mindset of scouting as the horse galloped across the steppe toward the drifting column of smoke, watching for anything unusual on the plain. Watching for outriders from the Mongol party. Watching for—
Haakon blinked several times and stood up in his saddle to get a better look at the thin shape he had spotted to the west. Having satisfied his first impression that he had spotted a human figure walking across the plain, he sat down and nudged his horse to his left.
As he got closer, details resolved themselves. The figure was a solitary man, dressed in black. He walked slowly and carried no bags of any kind. The only thing he carried was a tall walking stick, and as Haakon got closer, he saw that the man was tapping the walking stick on the ground ahead of him as if he were testing for sinkholes or slippery sand. The man’s clothing was filthy with soot and dirt, and he seemed familiar to Haakon.
“Feronantus?” Haakon called, recognizing the man’s weathered face beneath the layers of dirt and ash.
Feronantus didn’t seem to hear Haakon. He kept tapping the ground with his walking stick and staggering onward, doggedly moving west as if he intended to walk all the way back to Christendom. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing anything of the world in front of him.
They gathered around the dead horse as if they were eulogizing a fallen comrade. Without touching the body, Yasper explained that the horse had died from inhaling fiery air, much like the pair he and Percival had examined in the depression, though the horse had lived a few minutes longer than the other two.
“It is Feronantus’s horse,” Percival said, nudging one of the hooves with his boot. The saddle was blackened with ash, and the horse’s mouth was coated with soot.
“I don’t think it was Feronantus down there,” Yasper said. “It was a man and a tiger, though they had been—” He made a series of complicated gestures that signified nothing more than his own confusion and then put a hand over his face.
“The tiger tried to eat him,” Gawain said.
“It would have eaten him, if the fire hadn’t erupted,” Yasper said. “Whatever happened, happened so fast that neither could flee in time. They didn’t even have a chance to stop fighting.”
“Is it Feronantus or not?” Raphael asked. Like Percival, he had recognized the saddle on the dead horse, but there was no sign of the Spirit Banner, an omission that troubled him.
“Ah, not,” Yasper decided. “I think.” When Raphael glared at him, he spread his hands. “The tiger was chewing the front half of his head off, and the fire burned away most of his clothing. I’m not very good at identifying people from burned-up corpses.”
“Were there other members of your company who might have been traveling with him?” Gawain asked.
Raphael looked at Percival for suggestions, though he had his own suspicions. According to Yasper, Eléazar had remained behind to guard their escape, and of the remaining pair of the lost company, he found it hard to believe that Rædwulf would have tolerated Feronantus’s flight without the rest of the company. That left Istvan, the mad Hungarian who had bedeviled them during their entire journey. “It’s Istvan,” he said, giving voice to his thoughts.
“Aye,” Percival nodded. “I suspect that it was.” He shrugged slightly. “It is a pity that one of our company has fallen, but he fell in combat, did he not? What more could any of us ask?”
“That he did,” Raphael echoed.
“He was fighting a tiger—on foot, and without a weapon, apparently,” Yasper pointed out.
“That sounds like a fair fight,” Percival said.
“That sounds like Istvan,” Raphael said.
No one else had anything more to say about their fallen companion, and so they stood quietly for a few minutes, each conducting his own private memorial. It was Gawain who broke the somber mood eventually.
“Look,” the Welshman said, directing their attention to a lone horse approaching from the southwest. “There is young Haakon, and he has another with him.”
Haakon appeared to have a bundle of blackened sackcloth with him in his saddle, but as the young Northerner approached, Raphael saw that it was the huddled form of an old man. Of equal importance was the long staff strapped to the back of Haakon’s saddle.
“I found Feronantus,” Haakon said as he brought his horse to a stop. “He was walking west.”
The master of Týrshammar was slumped in the saddle with Haakon, his thin hands with their stark veins clutching the saddle horn. His face was even gaunter than Raphael remembered, and his beard and hair seemed even whiter under the layers of dirt and ash that covered him.
“He recognizes me,” Haakon said, “but he hasn’t said a word yet.”
Feronantus stared at the dead horse, a single tear tracking through the grime on his face.
“There’s something else,” Haakon said. “There’s a war party of Mongols coming. They’re about a half day behind us. We’re going to have to ride through the night if we hope to get away.”
“The plume of smoke is a beacon,” Gawain said. “It doesn’t matter if they saw him or not.”
“Aye,” Raphael said. “They’re coming here for the same reason we did, and when they do, they’ll find our trail. Riding through the night may mean only that we’re tired when they catch up to us.”
The veil of night covered the column of smoke, but in the resulting darkness, the source became abundantly clear. It was a flickering orange glow on the steppe, a beacon even more clear in the dark than the smoke against the b
lue sky.
Gansukh and Alchiq left their horses behind a stand of spruce and crept cautiously toward the glowing hole in the steppe. There was a fire burning in the ground, neither of them had any doubt of that fact, and during their slow creep toward the hole, Gansukh had ample time to wonder how such a fire was fed. It had burned for several days at this point and showed no sign of going out. How was it being stoked? What was its source of fuel?
The glow of the fire made it easy for them to spot the Skjaldbrœður camp on the western side of the hole. They gave the fiery hole a wide berth, and crawled on their bellies the rest of the way as close as they dared get. The figures were covered in flickering shadows, and only a few of them were very still. The rest were occupied in frenzied preparations of some kind.
Alchiq put his mouth close to Gansukh’s ear. “They know we’re coming,” the old hunter whispered.
Gansukh had to agree. Three of the male figures were hauling and digging, but he couldn’t see what they were accomplishing. The dirt was being hauled off and dumped, but they weren’t building any sort of retaining wall or defensive barrier. Beyond the camp, he saw the dim shapes of horses, suggesting the company had enough mounts to carry everyone, and perhaps a few more. The fire pit of the camp was obscured by a few tents, but he spotted two or three people who were moving around the fire. A man and two women, one of whom appeared to have long dark hair.
His heart lurched into his throat, and his fingers dug into the ground. Lian. He had given up thinking about what he would do when he saw her again. She had been on his mind nonstop during the first few months, but it was only as he saw her again that he realized he had been thinking about her less and less over the last few weeks. He hadn’t given up hope of seeing her again—no, that wasn’t it: he had come to the realization that he probably wouldn’t and his heart had been quietly burying his feelings.
Not deeply enough, he thought, staring at the slim figure as it moved back and forth behind a tent.
“The armored ones,” Alchiq muttered. “No archers.”
Gansukh swallowed heavily, forcing his heart back down into his chest where it echoed loudly. “What?” he whispered to Alchiq.
“No sign of archers,” Alchiq repeated. “Not like last time. That’s good. But…”
“But what?”
“Even if they are unhorsed, the armored ones are hard to kill.”
Alchiq jerked his head and crawled off, and Gansukh followed. They made a tiring circuit of the camp until they had a better view of the horses. When Alchiq drew up short, Gansukh nearly crawled into him. The old hunter hissed at him for his clumsiness and gestured for him to crawl around. As Gansukh was doing so, he caught sight of what had arrested Alchiq’s progress.
Standing along the western verge of the camp was an old man carrying a long pole. The pole was braced against the ground and the man was standing very still, his face pointed almost directly at them. Gansukh froze, hardly daring to breathe, his heart pounding harder in his chest. Had they been spotted? Alchiq was likewise immobile next to them, and they remained that way for such a time that their slow breathing became the breath of one being.
Alchiq grunted and shifted slightly, moving his body a hand’s span forward. There was no change in the watcher, and Gansukh realized that whatever the man was looking at, it wasn’t them.
“It’s him,” Alchiq hissed, his voice even quieter than before.
He wasn’t a man Gansukh recognized, but since Alchiq clearly did, that meant this elderly figure was the man they had been chasing all these months. Did that mean the staff in his hand was the Spirit Banner?
Alchiq thought as much, judging by the vibrations coming off his body. The old hunter moved again, shifting himself forward, but Gansukh stopped him by grabbing his calf.
“Even if you get the banner, you’ll be on foot,” he whispered to Alchiq. “They have horses. You won’t get far.”
Alchiq hesitated, a growl rumbling through his body. He wanted to try anyway; Gansukh could feel the frustration coursing through Alchiq’s body. To be so close to their goal but unable to reach it!
A pair of figures approached the group of horses, and Gansukh tugged on Alchiq’s leg to redirect his attention. As they watched the pair moved among the horses and, with much discussion, appeared to be separating them into two distinct groups.
“They’re splitting up,” Gansukh whispered to Alchiq, who grudgingly crawled back until he was side by side with Gansukh. “They’re picking out which horses to leave behind and which to take with them.”
Alchiq nodded in agreement, the growl still rumbling in his throat.
“The armored ones are staying behind,” Gansukh guessed.
“Aye,” Alchiq agreed. He watched the division of the horses a little while longer; then, with a lingering glance at the stoic old man and the staff, he signaled that it was time for them to depart.
Scuttling like lizards, they reversed their facing and crawled away from the camp in a straight line. Once they were far enough that the glow from the fiery hole was nothing more than a glimmer beyond the grasses, Alchiq stood up and brushed the mud and gunk off his deel.
“They hope to confuse us,” he said. “When Totukei attacks, he’ll find resistance, but he won’t know that some of them have gone.”
Gansukh’s heart was hammering in his chest again. Would Lian be one of those in the group that fled? “When Totukei overwhelms them, he’ll think he’s found them all,” he said. “He has no reason to think otherwise, does he?”
“Unless we tell him,” Alchiq said.
Gansukh wrestled with how to answer, trying to decide what his heart was telling him. “Why would we?” he asked finally. “Totukei doesn’t like you. You showed up in his camp, made a fool of his cousin, and told him that he wasn’t fit for command. He’ll want to kill them all just to prove you’re wrong about them.”
Alchiq grinned. “He will. Let him attack the Skjaldbrœður. We’ll just chase after the group that has fled.”
“By ourselves?” Gansukh asked. He cleared his throat and chose his next words with care. “You are not as adept with a bow as you once were,” he said.
Alchiq spat on the ground, unconsciously closing his injured hand to hide his missing finger. “We’ll have Totukei give us an arban. That will be enough for the women and the old man.” He glanced down at his fist and realized what he had done and angrily slashed his hand at Gansukh. “Let’s find our horses,” he said, striding off with utter confidence that he remembered where their horses were waiting.
Gansukh let him go, his attention going back to the distant Skjaldbrœður camp. The steppe was quiet. There were no night birds seeking food, and no wind moving through the grasses. His heart was still beating noisily in his chest, but it was calming down. He held his breath for a moment, listening and staring intently. Was something out there, watching them? He didn’t see or hear anything, but the skin on his arms prickled with the sense that he was being watched.
“Lian,” the word slipped out of him, and the spell holding him in place was broken. He shook his head and turned to follow Alchiq. There was nothing out there.
Raphael was sure the second Mongol had spotted them, even though he and Haakon had pressed themselves as flat as possible against the ground. Haakon had drawn his knife—that may have been the sound that had alerted the Mongol—and the Northerner was lying on the blade, ensuring no glint of moonlight gave them away.
They had been expecting scouts, and when Evren had spotted movement on the steppe, he and Haakon had immediately darted off into the darkness. They had blackened their faces, hands, and clothing with ash, rendering them practically inseparable from the night, and as the two Mongols had crept along the western edge of their camp, they had followed them.
Raphael had recognized Graymane by his white hair, and confirmation of the suspicion they had all held for so long had been both a relief and cause for alarm. After all this time, Alchiq was still chasing them. The man wou
ld never give up. Could they kill him before he was responsible for the deaths of more of their company?
Neither he nor Haakon moved for some time, and finally they heard the faint sound of hooves against the hard ground. Beside him, Haakon led out a loud whoosh of air and rolled onto his side. “They’re gone,” he whispered to Raphael.
Raphael nodded as he sat up. “I recognized Graymane,” he said. “The one named Alchiq.”
“The other one was Gansukh,” Haakon said. “I know him. He and Alchiq visited me while I was in the cage at the Khagan’s camp. He is an intelligent man.”
“Did you understand what they were saying?”
“Aye,” Haakon said as he sheathed his knife. “They know you’re planning on splitting the party. Someone named Totukei will be leading the attack tomorrow. They’re going to hunt Feronantus and the women with an arban.”
“Ten men,” Raphael said. “Did they say anything about how many men will be coming?” He gestured for Haakon to follow him, and started back toward their camp.
“He didn’t, but if he thinks he can get ten men without telling this Totukei what he is planning, then there are probably…” Haakon shrugged, not wanting to quantify the size of the force.
“More than ten,” Raphael said with a tight smile. “And probably fewer than a hundred. We’ve fought a hundred before. A jaghun. It won’t be easy. Harder, in fact, because I want you and Vera to ride with Feronantus.”
“What?”
“Cnán and Lian don’t have any armor. Ten skilled horse archers will bring them down without much trouble. Especially out here where there is no way to minimize their approach.”
“I want to stay,” Haakon complained.
Raphael shook his head. “Your wound slows you down. You won’t be able to help us. I should send the Seljuks too, but I need them.” He sighed and looked up at the star-strewn sky. “I hope the Virgin will watch over you, Haakon. Ride hard. I don’t know if we can stop them.”
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 26
