by Alan Smale
There was Jebei Noyon himself, his yellow armor standing out, wielding a giant ax and dealing blow after blow onto the armor of three warriors of the Hand on horseback who were assaulting him, with four Keshiks whirling around, trying to get into the fray. Above Jebei his position, too, was marked by the red blur of looping Macaws.
All eyes would surely go to Jebei in such a situation. But just fifty feet away from the fearsome Tayichiud general Marcellinus caught sight of a small but discordant detail.
Mongol warriors were practically born into the saddle. The joke was that Mongol infants could ride before they could walk, although Marcellinus was by no means sure that it was a joke. Mongols certainly had an instinctive understanding of horses that matched Sintikala’s instinct for the air, and she had flown strapped to her father’s chest before she could walk. Her earliest memories were of being airborne.
And of all the Mongols, the Keshik were the elite. They were the quickest, the strongest, the sturdiest. They rode as if they were welded to the horse, the closest thing to the mythical centaur that Marcellinus had ever seen.
All but one.
Not a hundred feet from him, a slender warrior in black leather sat on a dun horse, fidgeting with a knife in his hands. He wore the same helmet as any other Mongol and his features were indistinct, but even from this distance it was clear that he did not have a full beard. The three men to his right, however, were broad-chested and strong, full-bearded.
Suddenly, Marcellinus realized that the warrior was not fidgeting at all. He was making subtle hand-talk gestures: Chief. Left.
Marcellinus’s breath caught in his throat. “Sintikala. There.”
Without the clue of Pezi’s presence, Marcellinus might never have spotted the Mongol Khan. There was little enough variation in appearance and quality of armor between the Keshik warriors, nor did Marcellinus have the time to study faces. No banner or crest marked his position, and his black armor was the same as that of the two Keshiks who flanked him. His horse was piebald, which was something of a clue, as such horses had a special significance in Mongol culture, but it was not the only such horse in the field and was as shaggy-maned and poorly groomed a beast as any other.
Unlike Jebei Noyon, the Khan was remaining nondescript. He had done just as the Imperator had and removed all distinctive signs so that he would blend in with his men. But Marcellinus had seen Chinggis Khan before, and now he had no doubts at all.
And from the way Hanska surged forward, Marcellinus knew that she had recognized the Khan as well.
“Go to his left,” Marcellinus shouted in Cahokian. “Don’t spook him!”
Terse words, but Hanska understood. Fighting her way directly toward Chinggis would give away the fact that they had recognized him. Instead she raised her ax and shoved out leftward. Well and good, but in a fraction of a second Marcellinus realized they also had the opposite problem: Hanska was one of the most distinctive warriors in the Cahokian army, and the Khan would undoubtedly remember her, too.
But he could not call her back now. Rage had gripped her, and she was slicing a path through the warriors with berserker strength. The Khan had had Mikasi killed, and that was all Hanska was thinking about right now, if she was thinking at all.
Marcellinus called quick orders to the Third Cahokian, urging them forward as a screen between Hanska and the Khan. The six troopers of the Chernye who were shadowing Marcellinus pushed to the right, raising a ruckus, and Marcellinus slotted in behind them.
Despite this, the Khan saw them. He sat up in his saddle and looked straight across the battle line at Marcellinus and then at Sintikala, and finally his gaze locked on Hanska.
Chinggis Khan put his head to one side. He looked back at the liquid flame–blasted heath behind him and to the right, where Jebei Noyon fought like a man possessed against the warriors of the Hand. Now more of them were arriving, drawn to Jebei like moths to a flame, the elegance of their feathered armor contrasting oddly with their clumsiness on horseback.
Hanska had fought her way forward so rapidly that she was in danger of getting detached from the rest of the Third. Marcellinus tried to bull his way up behind her but found his path blocked by a saber-wielding Keshik warrior on a dark steed with a mane so long that it dragged on the ground. Despite the horse’s unlovely appearance, it moved quickly, rearing up and kicking. Marcellinus’s horse hastily backed away, snorting, and bumped into Sintikala’s.
A javelin appeared by Marcellinus’s waist. Sintikala was passing him a longer-reach weapon. He grabbed it with his left hand and raised it overarm, still clutching spatha and reins with his right, but the Cahokian troopers were pushing through and the Keshiks backed away, exchanging blows with the nearest of them. Two more Keshiks came into the attack, and it was probably half a minute before Marcellinus and the Cahokians could dispatch those warriors.
Marcellinus’s javelin was stuck in the guts of the original Keshik, who had fallen to the ground, his horse chased away by Sintikala. He wrenched at it to try to get it out, but it was barbed and had stuck firmly in the man’s ribs. “Leave it,” Sintikala called. “I have more.”
They cantered forward toward the Mongol Khan again. Hanska had halved the distance between herself and the Khan, but there she had gotten stalled, she and five of her men in harsh battle with an equal number of Keshiks.
As Marcellinus rode around them, he jammed the second of his spears into the neck of one of her assailants. It was a lucky blow. He had been aiming for the man’s shoulder, but the erratic behavior of his horse had thrown off his aim.
Side by side, Marcellinus and Sintikala pushed forward, Cahokian horsemen around them. Time seemed to slow as they opened up space and closed the distance between them and the Khan. They were only twenty feet away now, and still the Khan was watching their desperate efforts with some amusement.
A Macaw arrowed down out of the sky and slammed into Jebei Noyon, knocking him clear off his horse and twenty feet across the ground. The Macaw, out of control, cartwheeled across the grass after him, its pilot being whipped around in her straps. The warriors of the Hand howled and once again swarmed the Mongol chieftain. Already badly wounded, he went under. At last, the Hand had achieved the vengeance they sought.
Meanwhile, undistracted by the drama and stolid in their loyalty to their Khan, the Keshik warriors on either side of Chinggis slid bows off their shoulders and nocked their arrows. Chinggis raised his arm in a Roman salute in obvious mockery and then, with an ironic half smile, waved good-bye to Marcellinus.
And then Pezi attacked the Mongol Khan.
With so much going on, Marcellinus had stopped paying attention to the boy. So had everyone else. Now the word slave shinned off his horse, ducked behind the horse of the Keshik separating him from the Khan, and leaped up at him.
Someone behind Chinggis must have shouted out a warning, because the Khan began to move even as the boy grabbed him by the belt and drove the knife up and under his armor. Chinggis’s arm dealt Pezi a heavy blow. At the same time both of the Khan’s bodyguards dropped their bows and drew steel, the first whipping his saber down so fast that it was a blur. Startled by the sudden activity, the Khan’s horse bucked and kicked. The kick missed Pezi, but as the horse’s hooves came down again, they scored the boy’s legs. Pezi screamed.
The Khan twisted, peering down at himself. Blood from his wound had splashed down onto his horse’s flanks.
“Split.” Sintikala spurred her horse to the right. Marcellinus felt an instant of fear as she left his side.
Keshik warriors were converging on them. Marcellinus leaned forward, kicked at his increasingly reluctant horse, managed to dodge around two warriors who were heading for Hanska, and galloped into the suddenly appearing space, straight toward Chinggis Khan.
He reached behind him, and his questing hand found the third javelin in the quiver behind his saddle. He dragged it free.
Chinggis shouted an order, his high voice cutting through the din. The bodyguards to e
ither side of the Khan recovered their composure and raised their bows once again.
A Mongol arrow drove through Marcellinus’s breastplate and into his chest. The arrow did not knock him back and did not reach his heart, but as his horse kept up its gallop, the iron point grated against his rib, making him howl. He tried to raise his lance, and the pain came again, almost unbearable.
The Keshik guards moved forward. On the ground behind the Khan, Pezi shoved himself shakily upright. Blood poured from his chest and legs, but the knife was still in his hand, and this time he thrust it up under the barding of the Khan’s horse, slashing the animal deeply in the thigh.
Even as Marcellinus saw that, he was suddenly flying, airborne with no idea why. The ground came up to meet him and smashed the wind from him.
His horse had thrown him and was cantering away, snorting and squealing. The spatha had disappeared from his right hand, but his left still clutched the javelin. He looked up in time to see Sintikala hurl herself bodily off her horse and crash into the second Keshik. The bodyguard was not as lucky as Marcellinus. He got caught in his stirrups and flailed, painfully falling sideways.
Marcellinus came up onto one knee, gasping, looking for enemies. Where had the Mongol Khan disappeared to?
Behind him. The Khan’s horse had bucked again at the sudden stab to its thigh and had leaped past Marcellinus. Chinggis mostly had it under control, although it still tossed its head and rolled its eyes.
Marcellinus snapped the arrow that still jutted from his chest, threw it aside, and stood. Chinggis drew his saber. Six more Keshiks hurried forward, two on mounts and four on foot. Behind the Khan, Hanska’s Third Cahokian had caught up to her, and Chernye Klobuki were pouring in to engage the Keshiks.
Two arrows plinked off Marcellinus’s back. A third grazed his helmet. He had to move.
Hardly thinking anymore, trying to shove aside his fear and ignore the grating pain in his chest, Marcellinus ran forward with javelin raised.
The Khan’s horse’s ears went back. Chinggis slapped its flanks with his whip, then dropped the lash as the horse began to canter forward. The Khan raised his saber.
Sintikala had killed her Keshik and was fighting two more as the Chernye came in, firing arrows and slashing with their sabers. The field around them was a mass of mounted warriors battling hand to hand, with Marcellinus and Sintikala the only ones on foot and separated by two dozen yards.
As the Mongol Khan ran him down, slashing with the saber, Marcellinus hurled his javelin and threw himself aside. Trying to thrust at the Khan while still holding it would have been deadly dangerous; the impact would have knocked Marcellinus off his feet.
The javelin drove into the horse’s leather barding just above the throat and hung there. The horse flinched and tossed its head back but looked to have suffered little injury.
A heavy pilum would have served Marcellinus well now, but his only remaining weapon was the gladius that hung from his belt. He drew it and waited for the Khan to swing his horse around into another charge.
It did not happen. The horse reared, still in pain from the wound Pezi had inflicted, and skittered in distress. The Khan swung his feet out of the stirrups, dropped to the ground in a single motion, and strode forward toward Marcellinus.
As he did, he sheathed his saber and drew a mace from the strap that had held it on his back.
The mace was a much longer and heavier weapon than a gladius. This was now a very one-sided fight.
Marcellinus eyed him warily. Chinggis Khan was shorter than Marcellinus, but his shoulders and arms bulged with muscle. Fifteen years Marcellinus’s senior, the Khan still looked strong and hale, his graying hair the only sign of his age. Chinggis moved like a warrior, hefted the mace one-handed as if it were a toy, and eyed Marcellinus with predatory intent.
The Mongol Khan was a dangerous opponent, and again Marcellinus felt a quite uncharacteristic surge of fear.
“I am not kneeling at your feet now,” he said to the Mongol Khan. “You should have killed me when I was.”
The Khan could not have understood him but spit out a few words in a steady voice, his tone almost hypnotic. Ten feet from Marcellinus, he cut the air with a swing of the mace and raised it over his head again.
Marcellinus stepped forward. His gladius felt like a toothpick in his hand by comparison.
He needed the battle fury that gave him confidence, or the fight was already lost. He tried to recall the slaughter at Yupkoyvi, Enopay’s fear, the callous burning of the Roman soldier by the Jin.
And then Hanska screamed. Marcellinus flicked a glance to his left. She was fighting, her ax coming down and swinging around again so fast that it almost eluded the eye, dueling with a Keshik in an attempt to get past him for her own chance at the Mongol Khan. Her scream was not of pain but of raw, relentless, berserker anger.
And on breathing in her rage, Marcellinus felt it, too.
War be damned. Roma be damned. Marcellinus owed it to Hanska to kill this man.
He leaped forward, suddenly careless of the disparity of weapons between himself and the Mongol Khan. The saber was a slashing weapon and the mace a swinging weapon, and they were what the Khan was used to, and so Marcellinus ended his leap by thrusting the gladius forward in a direct and unsubtle line straight at the Khan’s face.
Unable to parry at that speed, the Khan stepped left to avoid the blade. His mace came around, as quick as Hanska’s ax, and swooped toward Marcellinus’s head. Such a blow would surely kill him. Marcellinus dodged it, jumping to his right to follow the Khan’s direction. He was watching Chinggis’s eyes, alert for any tell that might give away the Khan’s next move.
Marcellinus whipped the gladius forward. Its blade struck the Khan’s gauntlet and glanced off. It was Chinggis’s right hand, the hand that held the mace, but that hand was uninjured and still in motion, swinging the heavy weapon. Marcellinus lunged with the gladius again and only at the last moment saw the rock in the Khan’s left hand.
Pulling his strike, Marcellinus jumped back. The rock flew from the Khan’s hand and struck Marcellinus’s shoulder. If he had not retreated, it would have flown into his face.
As they separated, the Khan pulled his saber out of his belt with his left hand. Marcellinus sneered and pulled out his pugio. Both men glanced left and right, but they were unassailed. The melee still raged around them. Marcellinus could hear Hanska grunting as she traded blow after blow with her Keshik adversary, but for him and the Khan, their own duel was the only one that mattered.
Marcellinus moved left. The mace was still in Chinggis’s right hand, and crowding the Khan a little would help reduce his advantage from having the longer weapon. From the way Chinggis held his saber Marcellinus could tell the man was not a truly ambidextrous fighter, but the risk was plain: if Marcellinus swung his gladius and the Khan parried with the saber, Marcellinus would have no time to protect himself from the blow from the mace that would follow.
He was still watching the Khan’s eyes, and the Khan was watching his. The Khan was not gripped by battle ardor. He was cold and calculating, constantly measuring distances, gauging responses, evaluating threats.
Marcellinus’s anger still burned. He feinted left; the Khan reacted immediately. He ducked left again and swung, but the Khan jumped and lifted his mace, and both men fell back. A failed blow by either man might be his last.
Behind the Khan, Hanska lost her footing and tumbled over backward. She shrieked and rolled, but the Keshik was upon her. And Marcellinus’s rage became unbearable.
Time to take a leaf out of Hanska’s book. Marcellinus bellowed, a sudden blast of sound, and saw a flicker of uncertainty in the Khan’s eyes a moment before he leaped.
Marcellinus threw himself forward, gladius held high. The Khan slashed with the saber; Marcellinus twisted so that the blow bounced off his shoulder rather than cutting into his neck. Chinggis raised the mace to parry Marcellinus’s sword, but instead of swinging it down, Marcellinus punched f
orward again, the pommel of the sword crunching into the Khan’s nose.
Chinggis Khan shrieked. Landing almost on top of the Khan, Marcellinus stabbed his pugio into Chinggis’s neck below the leather flaps of his helmet. Blood spurted. The mace clipped Marcellinus’s head. It was the wooden shaft and not the heavy ball at its tip, but Marcellinus’s head rang, and for a dangerous moment his vision swam.
The Khan dropped the mace and swung, his gauntlet slamming into Marcellinus’s cheek.
Suddenly the gladius was gone from Marcellinus’s hand. He whipped the pugio around again and missed. The Khan stepped back and switched the saber back into his right hand, his left clutching at his neck.
The saber came around. Marcellinus held up an armored forearm and kicked out at the Khan’s knee. The saber glanced off his arm, and he kicked again.
The Khan went down. Marcellinus grabbed his helmet with an iron grip, and threw all his weight forward.
He looked up, and she was running toward him: Hanska of Cahokia, screaming, her ax high.
The Mongol Khan struggled. Marcellinus leaned on the man to hold him firm. Blood still poured from the conqueror’s neck.
Hanska slowed to a walk and quietened. She seemed suddenly mesmerized by the Khan. She had probably dreamed of this moment for a long time.
The Khan saw her coming. He still struggled, but his blood was spilling over Marcellinus’s hands, and he appeared to be weakening.
Marcellinus stole quick glances around him. Keshiks were on their knees, facing him. Cahokians and Romans stood over them, sweating. The furor of the battles taking place farther away had not abated, but close by, at least, everyone knew it was over. Out of the corner of his eye Marcellinus saw Pezi crawling forward, dragging himself toward them. Aelfric was to his left, panting, covered in mud.
“Now, Hanska,” Marcellinus said. “He’s yours.”
Hanska nodded. “For Mikasi,” she said, almost sadly.
