Tegusgal barked a command at him, waving a hand at the trees. Several men on either side of the Mongol leader raised their bows. Arrows were nocked.
Dietrich raised a hand, indicating that he understood Tegusgal’s command. He didn’t need Pius to translate, and he briefly wondered if by acknowledging Tegusgal, he had just signaled the end of the priest’s usefulness. Without waiting to see, he tapped his horse lightly in the ribs and turned his attention to the narrow path into the woods.
Rutger brought him to a squalid camp behind the fire-blackened remnants of a wall. There had been four walls once, encompassing a house that had probably belonged to Hunern’s burgher. Tents had been strewn up along the surviving wall, creating a makeshift shelter that had once been home to a crew of brutish Franks, vicious men who had shown little compunction about killing those who they saw as intruders. Hans and the Rats had learned to stay well away from the Black Wall-as they had called the camp.
It was empty now, and Hans could only guess as to the demise of the Franks. Had they all been slain in the riots or had their bluster run away and they along with it?
Before Hans had a chance to ask Rutger about the previous inhabitants of the camp, other Rose Knights began to join them. They were dressed much like their quartermaster-in filthy rags and plain habits. Occasionally, though, Hans could catch sight of what lay beneath their clothes. A silvery glint of maille, the dull sheen of boiled leather, the dark knobs of hammered studs. Armor. As the men solemnly huddled around Rutger and Hans, the boy felt something akin to what he felt when he slept among the roots of the spindly tree the Rats claimed as their own. He was in the presence of something older than he could imagine, something that had the strength to endure all adversity.
Rutger put a firm hand on Hans’s shoulder. “The boy knows much about the layout of the Mongol camp.” The older man squeezed Hans’s shoulder. “Tell them.”
He began with some hesitation, still awed by the stern focus of the knights around him, but as he spoke he slipped into the patter he used with all of the boys who had come and gone into the Mongol camp on his behalf. He knew every detail of what lay behind the walls of the Mongol compound. He had spoken so often over the past few months that the minutiae of the camp were etched in his mind like carvings upon ancient stones. The Shield-Brethren listened intently, and when he finally ran out of breath, they asked a few questions, prompting him to recite certain details once again. How many guards were at the front gate? Where was the back gate? How many archers in the towers along the front? Where were the barracks? How quickly did the Mongols react to an alarm? What about the prisoners who the Khan used as fighters in the arena? Where were they held?
When he finished, he listened quietly as Rutger walked through their plan, adjusting it as necessary in light of Hans’s information. He and the Rats had planned excursions in the past, but they had been the raids of boys-unkempt plans for thievery and mischief. The Shield-Brethren spoke of more brutal matters, of the efficient ways to kill men, of the ways to break an enemy’s will to fight. Certain elements of the plan might have struck Hans as dishonest or unbecoming actions of a knight had he been more of an innocent, but given what he had seen nailed to the wall of the arena, he found the simplicity of their plan to his liking. It was both cunning and jarringly direct.
Could it work? He felt something like hope spark in his chest, but it was a tiny flame and a cruel wind could snuff it out quickly.
“Styg, what of our riders?” Rutger asked.
“They’ll be ready,” Styg answered. He had come with Andreas on that day when the Shield-Brethren had stolen the Livonian horses. He was tall, dark-haired, and-though young-he exuded a confidence that Hans wished he could emulate as readily. “Halvard and Yvor have collected enough from the Mongol watchers to clothe themselves.” He glanced shyly at Hans, as if he wanted to speak with the boy but felt awkwardly confined by the current situation.
“Very well,” Rutger said. “I will go to the cart. The rest of you go to your men and wait for the signal.”
“What of the prisoners?” Styg asked.
Hans had told them they were scattered about the compound. Tegusgal did not want them housed too close to one another. Such proximity could easily foment rebellion.
Rutger shook his head. “Our priority is the gate.”
“The boy knows where they are housed. His idea has merit.”
“It is too risky.”
Styg laughed, and Hans was surprised to see Rutger recoil from the younger man’s reaction. “What difference will two men make?” Styg asked. “If we are that desperate to hold the gate, then we have already lost. Let Eilif and I go. If we can free the prisoners, then the Mongols will be fighting on two fronts. There are-how many? Two dozen?” He glanced at Hans, who nodded. “Was this not the reason Andreas wanted to make contact with them? They have the same enemy. Given the chance, I know they will fight at our sides.” Styg gestured at Hans. “He knows as well. These men are our allies. We can trust them.” He thrust his chin toward the sprawl, away from the Mongol camp. “What if the others do not come?”
“By the Virgin,” Rutger swore, “you are going to haunt me forever, aren’t you?”
Hans did not follow Rutger’s speech, and as he glanced at the other Rose Knights, he saw that many of them did not understand their master’s question either. Rutger passed his hand across his face, covering his eyes for a brief moment. His fingers were bent and crooked, and they shook. “Very well,” he sighed, lowering his hand.
“But not the boy,” he amended, cutting off Styg’s enthusiastic reply. “The boy stays on this side of the wall, with someone to watch over him.”
Styg nodded, curbing his tongue.
“Go,” Rutger said. “Before I change my mind. Wait for us to draw their attention.”
Before he saw the chapter house, Dietrich expected to smell it: the burning fragrance of green wood, the crisp tang of smoldering meat, the hearty aroma of baking bread. But as his horse trotted along the narrow path, he smelled none of that. There was only the scent of wet ash in the air, the morning dew still damp on partially burned logs that had lost their heat during the night.
Concerned, he snapped his reins against his horse’s neck. There was only one reason why he would be smelling cold fires, and as he broke through the edge of the clearing, he quickly saw that his fear was well-founded.
The chapter house was deserted.
The central building of the old monastery was a pile of rubble scattered across the northern verge of the clearing as if the chapel had been knocked over a half century ago by the idle hand of God, and an arc of roofless outbuildings abutted the ragged front porch of the chapel. A small graveyard bounded with a low stone wall lay to the east, and the forest encroached from the west, taking over what had once been the monastery’s pasture; Dietrich spied a number of stout trunks arranged along the leading edge of the birch and oak trees. Archery stands, he noted, his eyes picking up other signs that the ruins had recently been inhabited. A thin strand of white smoke curled up slowly from one of the circular fire pits on his left. Picket stakes, minus the rope between them, had been driven into the ground next to the graveyard. Other bits of wood sticking out of the ground indicated where the tents had been, and a long scrap of dirty cloth still clung to the jagged stones of a large gap in one of the walls of the chapel.
The Shield-Brethren had been here recently, and they had not been gone long. The midafternoon sun shone down on a camp that had been hastily and recently abandoned, put into disarray by the chaos of a rapid departure.
Through the breach in the forest, the Mongols poured into the camp. Dietrich’s charger snorted and pawed the ground as the Mongols flowed around them as if they were a stone in the midst of the torrential flood that had just broken through a dam. Dietrich tried to calm his horse as Tegusgal passed nearby, barking orders at his men. Mongols slid off their horses and disappeared into the old stone ruins.
Tegusgal pointed at Die
trich, snapping more orders, and Dietrich didn’t need Pius to translate. The Mongol’s displeasure was readily evident on his face.
“Wait,” Dietrich shouted, holding up his hands. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw several Mongols raising their bows. He was out of time. “The Shield-Brethren were here,” he said, “But they haven’t run away. They aren’t cowards.” When an arrow didn’t immediately pierce him, he paused long enough to take a breath and look around for the priest. He had to make them understand. If even for only a few minutes more. Long enough for him to…
Pius was still alive, huddling on his horse like a wet rag draped across a saddle. Dietrich waved his hand at the shivering priest. “Tell him,” he snapped. “Tell him what I just said. Our lives depend on it.”
Pius began to translate, but his voice was so soft that Dietrich could barely hear him and he shouted at the priest to speak more loudly. Pius flinched, nearly fell off his horse, and started again.
“Your mighty force outnumbers them,” Dietrich continued when Pius’s translation elicited no arrows. “They would be fools to simply wait for you here. How defensible is that chapel?” He pointed at the broken building behind Tegusgal. “How long could they keep your men from breaching its walls? The history of their order goes back many, many years, and it has never been their way to lie down and die when confronted by hardship. They are at their most dangerous when you think you have them cornered.”
Dietrich glared at Pius as the priest faltered in his translation. Under Dietrich’s insistent gaze, the priest shuddered and then continued translating.
While the priest spoke, Dietrich let his reins go slack in his hands, and he tightened his right leg against his charger’s barrel. The horse flicked its ears and shook its head as it started to perambulate.
Tegusgal frowned, turning in the saddle as the men he’d sent to search the old building reemerged. The look on their faces was all Dietrich needed to see. They tried to make a report, but Tegusgal cut them off with an angry wave.
“He’s going to kill us,” Pius hissed, and Dietrich waved him quiet.
As his horse ambled in a wide arc, Dietrich used the animal’s motion to indicate the ring of trees surrounding the ruined monastery. “Where would you hide if you had fewer men?” he asked.
Tegusgal’s eyes flickered toward the tree line as Pius translated the question. In that instant, when the Mongol commander’s attention-as well as the attention of most of his archers-wasn’t on him, Dietrich snatched up his reins and drummed his heels against his horse’s barrel. He was pointing in almost the right direction-the narrow breach in the woods that was the path they had followed to the Shield-Brethren camp.
If he could make it that far, he might have a chance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Night of the Fish Gutter
Night came quickly in the mountains, and as the sky bled to black, the warmth of the day vanished. A half dozen bonfires were built, crackling piles of orange and yellow flame, and their light and heat summoned everyone to the center of the camp. A wooden platform was raised for the Khagan so that he could watch the festivities and all of his subjects could watch him eat and drink. Beside the platform, a gladiator ring had been erected, and already there were clusters of moneylenders haggling over bets.
The festival would last a good part of the night.
Master Chucai prowled along the periphery of the long fire pits where the Khagan’s numerous cooks worked furiously. They didn’t have the luxury of the permanent kitchens of the palace at Karakorum, but they were managing to craft an endless variety of baked and stewed and sweetly charred victuals. Occasionally, Chucai would stop a servant, loaded down with a steaming tray of food, and sample something off the top of the plate as he reiterated his desire to speak with the leader of the Darkhat.
The servant would nod, scurry off to deliver his tray of hot food, and upon his return, he would tell Chucai the same thing as all the others before him: the Khagan was in a most jovial mood and was enjoying Ghaltai’s company; the Darkhat commander felt it was unseemly to excuse himself at this time.
Chucai chafed at being denied, and what irritated him even further was the fact that he could not simply interrupt the Khagan’s meal and demand to speak-privately-with the Darkhat commander. Ogedei was annoyed with him, and it was likely the Khagan would simply berate him for interrupting the dinner party with what Ogedei-in his addled state-would think was nothing more than Chucai’s constant meddling in the affairs of the empire.
All of which would make Chucai’s job more difficult.
His conversation with Alchiq buzzed around the corners of his mind too. The idea that the Khagan might be in danger. If the Chinese raiders had been trying to kill the Khagan, that night would have gone very differently. The Chinese-outnumbered several times over by the Khagan’s Torguud escort-had managed to get far enough into the camp to steal the banner. How safe was the Khagan?
And the constant confusing complication of the banner. Where had it come from? Why was it important to the Chinese?
Chucai noticed a pair of men returning from the feast, and realized one of the two was more heavily attired than the other. As they approached the ruddy glow of the cooking pits, he noted the blued shadows of the second man’s cloak. Ghaltai.
“They are bringing out the fighters,” the Darkhat commander said as he came up to Chucai. “I told the Khagan I needed to take a piss.”
Chucai nodded sagely at the other man’s duplicity. “I appreciate you coming to see me,” he said. “I have a matter which I would discuss privately with you.”
Ghaltai grunted. “I do need to piss,” he said gruffly, making as if he was going to walk past Chucai.
“Do,” Chucai said, laying a hand on the Darkhat’s arm. “I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable while on your horse.”
Ghaltai looked at Chucai’s hand. “I am an honored guest of the Khagan,” he said softly.
“He’s been drinking,” Chucai said, “Plus the fights will have started. He won’t notice you are gone.”
“Where am I going?”
“I want you to take me somewhere.”
Ghaltai shook off Chucai’s hand. “You presume much, Master Chucai. I am not one of your servants.”
“No, you serve the Khagan. And the empire.” Chucai nodded toward the noise and light of the feast. What had Alchiq said? I’ve never stopped wanting to serve. “Surely you’ve noticed the empire isn’t what it used to be,” Chucai said to the Darkhat leader.
Ghaltai looked in the opposite direction, his face suffused with shadows. “He may be the only one who doesn’t see it,” he murmured.
“I want to know where Temujin went,” Chucai said. “I want you to take me to that place.”
“There is nothing there,” Ghaltai hissed, whirling on Chucai. “Nothing but spider webs and dust.” His eyes were wide, filled with firelight.
“Then what harm is there in showing me?” Chucai asked. When Ghaltai didn’t answer, he shrugged. “What harm is there in helping the Khagan see what he has lost?”
Ghaltai spat into a nearby cooking pit, his spittle sizzling as it was vaporized by the heat. “No,” he laughed hollowly, “What harm ever came from knowledge?”
Shortly after the Khagan had announced the feast celebrating the hunt, Gansukh had started to hear snatches of the news as it passed among the Torguud: Munokhoi was no longer commanding the Imperial Guard. There was no official announcement-he knew there wouldn’t be-but like a shadow flitting across the sun, something changed at the camp.
As the day waned and the feast got underway, Gansukh sensed a presence near him, like a predator slowly stalking its prey. Unlike a nervous deer, he did not stand still and stare about him, wondering from which direction his death would come; he kept moving, wandering and weaving through the maze of tents. He doubled back on his trail-sliding underneath wagons and ducking through the open framework of the half-erected ger. A merchant hollered at him to assist with c
arrying rugs, and he happily agreed to the task, using the long tube as a shield as he went back and forth along the same route for a half hour.
On the third trip, he caught sight of Munokhoi. The ex-Torguud captain paced him on the other side of the row of ger on his right. When he dropped off his armload of rugs and returned to the merchant’s wagon, Munokhoi was no longer there. But Gansukh had seen enough of his stormy expression to know he wouldn’t be far away.
When the crowd started to gather for the fights at the feast, he worried momentarily about the press of bodies. It would be easy to slip up next to a man in the confusion and slip a knife in his back, and so he made sure he stayed on the western side of the gladiator ring where the light from the bonfires was brightest. As the audience grew more excited about the fights, he sidled toward a cluster of Torguud who were clustered around a pair of busy moneylenders.
“Ho, Gansukh! I hear the blond one is fighting.” The mountain clan archer, Tarbagatai waved him over to the cluster of guards. “Did you bet on him last time?”
“I did,” Gansukh replied, “And when we return to Karakorum, I believe someone owes me twenty-five cows.”
“Twenty-five?” Tarbagatai scoffed. “Who was such an idiot to bet that many?” The Torguud standing next to the young archer elbowed him roughly, and Tarbagatai paled as he realized what he had said.
“Yes, well, that idiot was me,” Gansukh mused, glancing about. “But thankfully someone took my bet. I suppose that makes me clever, doesn’t it? And the other one the idiot-”
“You boast rather mightily for a man who not only didn’t kill any of the Chinese raiders but also managed to be captured by them.”
Gansukh looked for Munokhoi and found him standing much too close on the left. The ex-Torguud captain’s eyes were bright, and his head glistened with sweat.
The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3 Page 35
