“Don’t go to my ger,” he said. “There’s nothing left.”
Her body quivered. Nothing left. It was all coming to an end.
He read her fear in her face, and some of it leaped to his eyes as well. He stroked her cheek lightly, and she turned her head away, unable to bear his touch. “Lian,” he started, and then he fumbled with his jacket. He took her hands, pressing a rectangular shape between them. “I’ll be back,” he said, squeezing her hands tight around the thin box.
Someone shouted from behind Gansukh, and he turned his head. One of the Torguud stood on the platform of the Khagan’s ger, and he beat the base of his spear against the wooden platform to further command the assembly’s attention.
Lian transferred the object to her left hand and grabbed Gansukh’s jacket with her right. “Wha-?” he started, but she cut him off by pressing her lips to his mouth. She broke the contact before he could properly respond to the kiss, and somewhat reluctantly, she released her hold on him.
“Good hunting,” she whispered.
“Lian-”
She shook her head, cutting him off.
Many voices shouted behind him as the splendidly attired form of Ogedei Khan emerged from the ger. Dressed in a plum-colored fur-lined jacket and matching trousers, the Khagan carried a cup of tea in one hand and a curved bow in the other. He stood there, surveying the crowd, seemingly indifferent as the audience erupted into wild pandemonium.
Gansukh hesitated, confusion still written across his face, but as the Khagan began his speech, he tore himself away from Lian. She closed her eyes as he turned away, and her tiny sob was lost in the tumult of the burgeoning crowd.
“Many years ago,” Ogedei began once the cheering subsided, and his voice was soft enough that the crowd became instantly silent so as to hear his words, “my father came to Burqan-qaldun. He slew the Great Bear, and its spirit helped him bring the clans together.”
Lian opened her eyes, drawn in by the Khagan’s voice. He stood, regal and proud, on his raised platform, and with quiet dignity, he took a long sip from his teacup. “This,” he said as he raised the cup, “is Chinese tea. I would not be drinking it were it not for my father.” He hurled the cup down, and it shattered on the cold and hard wood of the platform. He thrust his other arm in the air, holding the curved bow high. “This is a Mongol bow,” he shouted. “This is how my father hunted. This is how my father made his empire. This is how I will claim what is mine.”
Ogedei looked down on the audience and his gaze settled on Jachin. And how could it not, with as many skirts and scarves as she wore? He gave her a beatific smile, and Lian’s heart jumped. For a brief instant, the Khagan ignored everyone else and focused on Second Wife, and Lian knew the effect the Khagan’s attention would have on Jachin-it would sustain her the entire time the Khagan was gone on his hunt. Longer, even. Somewhat selfishly, Lian knew that Jachin would be so much easier to deal with during that time. She would be lost in her own imaginary world, rapt with bliss.
“Such a dumb cow. So easily beguiled.” Munokhoi’s voice was quiet and controlled, and all the more frightening for it.
Lian’s heart hammered in her chest, and she found herself unable to breathe. She had not heard the ex-Torguud captain’s approach, and she was too frightened to do anything but press her left hand against her waist, hiding the tiny box with her hand and body as best she could.
“She will not protect you,” Munokhoi continued, coming closer to her. She could feel his presence now, a burning heat directly behind her. His breath stirred her hair.
Her hand dropped to her side, and she let out a tiny cry as his hand smashed on top of her right hand, pinning her fingers against the hilt of the knife she kept hidden in her skirts. “Do you think to stab me with your lover’s knife?” He pulled her hand back, twisting it behind her back. Out of sight of the crowd. “Here?” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. “With all these people watching?”
She struggled briefly, but it only made him hold her more tightly, and the proximity of his body-and the oily stench of his breath-made her shudder and stop.
“I can kill you any time I want,” Munokhoi whispered. “Your protector is leaving, and Second Wife will be too busy pining for the man who doesn’t truly care for her to notice how frightened you have become.” He inhaled deeply, smelling her hair. “I like the way you smell when you are scared. I can only imagine what you are going to smell like when you know you are going to die.”
Lian tried to calm her breathing, tried to remember the lessons Gansukh had taught her, but her mind was like a cloud of wild butterflies. All she wanted to do was run, but Munokhoi’s grip on her arm was too tight.
“I am going to kill your lover,” Munokhoi sighed, “and then I am going to kill you. Maybe I will bring back his head so that he can watch you die.” He chuckled, and she couldn’t stop the shiver of revulsion that ran through her body.
She felt his leg against hers, and she finally remembered what Gansukh had taught her. Gathering her courage-a tiny spark of defiance that bloomed as soon as she reached for it-she stomped down with her heel, trying to catch Munokhoi’s foot. Simultaneously, she grabbed for his groping hand. If she could get a hold on his thumb…
His hand vanished as she was pushed from behind. Stumbling forward, she caught herself before she fell down, and still moving away from where she had been standing, she looked over her shoulder.
Munokhoi was gone.
The Khagan had finished his speech, and his horse-a magnificent white stallion-was being led through the crowd to the edge of the ger’s platform. The crowd continued to cheer, swords, spears, and bows rising and falling as they chanted the Khagan’s name.
Lian scuttled toward the crowd, trying to look every direction at once-hoping to find Gansukh, dreading that she might catch a glimpse of Munokhoi.
Gansukh tried to find Lian. When the Khagan had appeared, the crowd had become chaotic. More people had suddenly surrounded the Khagan’s ger, every one hoping to bask in his glory as he set out on this momentous hunt. He and Alchiq had joined the other hunters, waiting for the Khagan to finish his speech. Gansukh had started to fret with his horse’s tack. The last part of his conversation with Lian had been interrupted; he had wanted to tell her about the contents of the box. But he couldn’t find her in the crowd, even from the height afforded him by sitting astride his horse.
The Khagan had descended the stairs from his ger and was fussing with his horse’s bridle. The rest of his entourage had already mounted, and their horses were becoming restless. It was clear to most of the riders that there was nothing wrong with the Khagan’s tack, but no one dared say anything. They all waited, patiently; so did the crowd, but Gansukh could read an undercurrent of boredom creeping into some of the faces around him.
Where is she? He felt fairly certain that Munokhoi would come after him first, a certainty that had only increased in the days since the Chinese attack. The ex-Torguud captain liked to cause others pain, especially those who could not fight back as effectively, and so he knew Munokhoi would wait to deal with Lian. But now, scanning the crowd, he wasn’t so sure. And he was leaving the camp for at least a day. What would Munokhoi do while he was gone?
The Khagan swung himself up in his saddle, finally satisfied that the straps of his reins were not frayed or twisted. Ogedei adjusted his position in his saddle, and raising one arm over his head, he tried to stir the audience’s fervor again. But a little too much time had passed and some of the initial excitement of the Khagan’s hunt had waned; now the crowd’s enthusiasm felt a little forced.
Ogedei brought his hand down sharply and snapped his reins. His white stallion leaped forward with a snort, scattering courtiers who hadn’t been paying close enough attention. Namkhai gave a shout to his Torguud, and the honor guard followed the Khagan in a thunder of hooves. Master Chucai and the trackers followed, the shaman on his tiny pony bringing up the rear.
“Hai!” Alchiq shouted, slapping his r
eins against his horse’s neck. The gray-haired hunter galloped after the hunting party, leaving Gansukh as the last.
His horse snorted, eager to join the rest, and Gansukh searched for sight of Lian one last time.
Ogedei had given him the sprig to keep safe, and the decision to leave it with Lian had been a sudden one. He had sensed she was worried that he wasn’t coming back, and on one hand, he wasn’t terribly worried about the Khagan’s hunt. The escort would more than protect the Khagan from a rampant bear should things go awry. On the other, there was Munokhoi.
Munokhoi will come after me first. He tried to believe it, but his heart quailed. What if he was wrong? Not only was he was leaving her to die, he had entrusted her with the sprig. Had he just given it to his enemy?
Someone whistled shrilly, and Gansukh caught sight of Lian finally. Her face was drawn-frightened, concerned, steadfast-and her left hand was clenched tightly around the lacquer box that held the sprig. She pointed in the direction of the galloping horses. The fear vanished from her face as she slowly traced her thumb across her throat.
Gansukh was suddenly cold in the warm late-morning sun. He locked eyes with Lian and nodded, understanding what she was telling him. He slapped his reins, encouraging his horse to join the others.
The hunt had begun. It would be finished out there, in the woods.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Uncaged
Hans crouched behind the Black Wall, sheltered by the straining afternoon shadows. He could clearly hear every detail of the battle at the gate; in the chaos of battle, Hans knew, it was all a whirling wind-a thick cloud of noise and violence that deadened the senses and mind with its intensity. It was bad enough hearing it; he didn’t need to see it too. He had had enough of watching men kill one another during the siege of Legnica.
Maks, on the other hand, could not tear his gaze away. He stood, shifting nervously from foot to foot, at the edge of the wall, peering down the alley at the gate of the Mongol compound. His hand kept tensing on the grip of his sword, a nervous reaction each time a new scream echoed on the air, as if he might tell from whose throat it sprang.
“They’ll win,” Hans said, and immediately felt foolish for speaking the words. It didn’t matter if the Shield-Brethren won or lost; he knew what Maks wanted was to be part of the battle. It was the same feeling he’d felt every time that he’d sent one of the other boys to carry a message in his stead.
Abruptly Maks looked back at him, and by the sudden calmness in his stance, Hans realized the young man was weighing a decision. “They need me,” Maks said. “And you should not be here in any case. Go back to your uncle, boy. I must fight with my brothers.” He pushed away from the wall, turning toward the alley, and then paused. He reached behind him, slid his dagger out of its sheath, and offered it to Hans. “In case you run into any trouble on the way back,” he said, and then he left, sprinting down the alley to join his companions.
Hans stared at the dagger in his hand. Long and narrow, it possessed a triangular cross section and a single edge tapering to a deadly point. More screams ripped through the air, accompanied by a renewed frenzy of metal clashing on metal, and Hans shivered, immobilized by the deadly weapon in his grip.
He should listen to Maks’s command. He should go back to his uncle and flee Hunern. But that would mean going with Ernust to Lowenberg. They promised to take me with them, he thought, his hand tightening on the handle of the dagger. If he went to Lowenberg, would the Shield-Brethren come and find him? Would they send someone for him? He shook his head. If he left with his uncle, he would never know who won. He would never know if he had been helpful. He stood paralyzed, the sounds of the combat echoing in his ears; the dagger was a heavy weight in his hands.
I will never know…
His mouth tightened into a hard line, and he turned away from the alley, heading back along the wall in the direction he had gone several hours earlier with Styg, Eilif, and Maks.
Styg had pounded stakes into the wall of the Mongol compound. Hans had no illusion that he was going to fight the Mongols, but he knew the layout of the compound better than anyone else. Could he trust Styg to remember all of the details of the map he had sketched in the dirt?
Once he was out of sight of the gate, he broke into a run. He could still be useful.
The Shield-Brethren needed him more than his uncle did.
Styg and the scarred man found Eilif inside the large tent, crouched next to the first of two large iron cages. The Shield-Brethren scout was wrestling with an iron lock, cursing the mechanism’s failure to yield to his efforts. He glanced up as the pair approached, and Styg was taken aback by his brother’s frantic expression.
They could hear the sounds of the pitched battle at the gate-the mingled cries of the victorious and the shrieks of the dying. How many of those wailing voices were the cries of their friends dying? Styg understood Eilif’s consternation; he had been struggling for some time with the lock, growing more and more frustrated with his continued failure.
“There must be a key,” he said, trying to calm Eilif. “We will find it.” As he came closer to the cages, Styg recognized the one Haakon had faced in the arena-Zugaikotsu No Yama. The other one had to be Kim, the Flower Knight, the man Andreas had faced at First Field. Both had been brutally beaten, their faces swollen and their bodies crisscrossed with ugly scars and welts. Styg smelled sweat, piss, and blood, and knew these men had been in these cages since Andreas had died.
Kim started talking to the scarred fighter, his words slurred and thick. The scarred fighter responded, pointing to the two Shield-Brethren. Kim nodded, and pointed at the heavy locks on both cages, as if none of them had noticed them yet.
“Everything else about this place is made from sticks and bones,” Eilif groused, “but not these damn locks. They’re solid, and I can’t figure out how to jam them open.” He ran his hand through his hair, a helpless expression painted on his face. “We need a key, but I have no idea which one of the Mongol guards-”
The scarred warrior put his hands on Eilif’s shoulders and carefully pushed him aside. He stood before the lock on Zug’s cage, staring contemptuously at it as though there was nothing more loathsome in the entire world, and Styg could almost feel him feeding all of his hate, all of his rage, into this lump of rain-rusted iron. Zug had been talking to the warrior, but he broke off suddenly as the fighter raised his stolen Mongol sword and brought it down with all of his might on the loop of metal at the top of the lock.
Styg could see no change in the metal as the fighter smashed his sword down on the lock a second time. Within the cages, Zug and Kim were now considerably more animated than they had been, as if freedom were only one mighty stroke away. Styg caught sight of the fiery delight in their eyes, and he shivered. Yes, he thought, I want you to be unleashed too.
“Lakshaman,” Eilif said quietly, nodding at the scarred man. “He fought the Livonian. Do you remember?” Styg, eyeing the furious intent in the scarred man’s face, remembered. Lakshaman had fought against a better-armed and better-armored opponent and won. This man, with his scars and his knives, had taken that warrior with every advantage, and fed him his own preordained victory on the tip of his own rondel.
Suddenly Styg had little doubt the lock would yield.
There was a deafening clang and sparks flew, dancing across the dirt floor. Zug’s cage trembled. Lakshaman raised his weapon, and Styg noted how pitted and scarred the edge of the blade was, jagged like broken teeth. Styg was arrested, rooted to the spot as the whole world seemed to fade into the nothing but for Lakshaman and his jagged blade. Styg’s heart pounded in his chest as Lakshaman brought the sword down one more time, screaming in inchoate fury. Everything rested on the strength and fury of one man, battered and scarred by brutal masters, against a simple iron lock.
Lakshaman’s sword snapped, and Styg and Eilif ducked as a large piece of the blade bounced off the iron bars of Zug’s cage with a resounding clang.
Th
e sword was not the only thing that had broken. The lock lay on the ground, snapped in half.
Lakshaman, breathing heavily, tossed aside the useless hilt of the Mongol sword. Zug tentatively touched the bars of his cage and slowly pushed the door open, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. The door moved, and a ferocious grin spread across his face. He was free.
Kim cleared his throat, and when he had their attention, he pointed at the lock on his cage. The look on his face was easy to interpret.
One more.
When Lakshaman raised his sweat-slicked face and looked at Styg, he shrugged and went to get another Mongol sword. He knew where a few were lying, no longer needed by their owners.
There was someone climbing the spikes Styg had driven into the wall.
Hans had found his way back to the spot where the Shield-Brethren had entered the Mongol compound readily enough-he knew every route through the broken alleys of Hunern, but instead of darting to the wall and scaling the spike ladder, he had ducked behind the same broken wall he and Maks had hidden behind previously. He had seen no one during his dash-not surprising, given the mood in the city-and so the sight of another person was startling.
More so that it was a Mongol warrior.
In fact, it was none other than Tegusgal, the captain of the Khan’s guard.
The Mongol’s armor was battered and stained-both with soot and blood-and his helmet was missing. From what Rutger had said when they were all gathered behind the Black Wall, Tegusgal and his Mongols should have been caught in an ambush on the other side of the river. The Templars and Hospitallers had been in charge of making sure none of the Mongolian cavalry made it back to the compound. Hans felt his stomach tighten at the thought that the other knights had failed.
But Tegusgal was alone, sneaking into his own camp-which suggested that the ambush had been successful. Tegusgal was returning to his master like a whipped dog.
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