The Mongoliad: Book One

building as the guards on the elevated platform started shooting arrows.

It probably would have been wiser for him to wait for the Khevtuul to catch up, identify himself, and join with them in their pursuit of the assassin instead of being mistaken for the assassin’s accomplice. Gansukh stared at the receding figure of the assassin as he raced down the empty street toward the market gate. It would be wiser…

Muttering a half plea/half curse to the Blue Wolf, Gansukh sprinted after his quarry.

CHAPTER 13: WEST MEETS EAST

“I don’t mean to distract you from what is most important…” said Brother Rutger as he poised the helm above Haakon’s head.

“You mean, not dying under the blade of whatever comes out of yonder tunnel?”

“Indeed. But we need information about the Khan. His special pavilion sits above the south end of the arena, positioned so that the sun will never shine in his eyes. There must be wooden walls behind all that canvas, behind all those hanging drapes that obscure its interior. We know so little about the layout inside. How many sit with the Khan? Does the pavilion have gates or doors that we would need to break down should the javelin throw fail? A railing over which we would need to vault? Guards who would need to be put out of the way? What is the Khan’s escape route should our first and second attempts miscarry?”

Haakon wanted to roar with anger, but it came out as a strangled laugh. “I am about to do battle with a demon,” he complained, “and you want me to—”

“It’s no demon,” Brother Rutger said and spat on the loose ocher ground that had been tracked down the tunnel on the boots of surviving combatants. “It’s a man dressed as one.” He rammed the helm down onto Haakon’s head and slapped him on the ass. Even through surcoat, chain mail, gambeson, and drawers, the impact came through solidly. “And the Red Veil,” he added. “We still wish to know what lies on the other side.”

Haakon grunted as he adjusted the helmet to suit him. The mysterious veil. It hung from the outer edge of the Khan’s box, obscuring the southern gate from the arena. Victorious fighters were allowed to pass beyond the veil, but they had to be able to walk out of the arena without assistance. So far, no fighter had won his bout so decisively as to be without injury. Three other Brothers had fought in the arena before him. Two had won their fights, but their wounds had been severe enough that they had not survived the night.

Rutger put his hand on Haakon’s shoulder. They regarded each other silently. Saying good-bye would be worse than useless, since Rutger and the others would see it as a premature admission of defeat. Like his brothers who had fought before him, Haakon knew he was supposed to be full of martial bluster. If anything, he should scoff at Rutger’s unspoken concern and say something to the effect that he would return from this fight in less time than it took to run out to the gutter and take a shit.

But that wouldn’t be true, and to speak so falsely—especially when Rutger would know he was lying— seemed to be behavior ill-suited to the role he was supposed to be playing.

I am a Knight of the Virgin Defender.

Haakon slapped his hand over Rutger’s briefly and then tromped up the tunnel, adjusting his mail. With each step, the loose red earth became deeper and softer under his feet.

As he walked through the narrow tunnel, he reflected on Taran’s final words to the young members of the Shield-Brethren who would be fighting in the arena. As their oplo, Taran had never been one for grandiose speeches. His instruction had always been brusque, and his directive to his student had been equally to the point: This is not a sparring tournament like the ones offered at Tyrshammar. Here, given the chance, your opponent will kill you. Your field of battle will be constricted, and the ranks of spectators will confuse and disorient you. Ignore all of that. Remember the one rule: do not die. Keep your focus. Know thy way, warrior; know thy balance and strength. Sophrosyne. That is how you will prevail.

Haakon had never understood the meaning of that Greek word, one of Feronantus’s favorites. Raphael had once chided Feronantus that, in Alexandria, it meant virginity. Their leader had not demurred. Still, Haakon was a virgin…

At the end of the tunnel, two men—Mongols both, armored in the layered scale and lamellar of the steppes —stepped out to bar his way. Haakon paused as one spoke a single guttural word and held out his hand: hold.

Even though he was ready for the fight to begin, Haakon slowed. There was no reason to hurry. The sun was shining out there. As soon as it struck his helmet, he would begin to overheat. The rag-stuffed cap that protected his freshly close-cropped head would become saturated, and then the sweat would begin trickling into his eyes, ruining the view through the helmet slits. Not long after that, he would begin to lose focus and strength.

Sophrosyne. He could wait.

A third Mongol appeared and said something to the two barring Haakon’s path, a flow of words both harsh and lyrically smooth, but babble to Haakon’s ears. The two guards stood aside, and the third gave him a nod whose meaning could not be mistaken: Haakon was now to enter.

As he stepped out of the shadows, sunlight greeted him in a flash, blinding him. Blinking—waiting for his eyes to adjust—he tried to orient himself. The Khan’s box, supposing it even existed, should be up there somewhere to his right, above the thick swath of red fabric that hung down to the sandy floor of the arena.

Haakon’s view, from the western entrance, was obscured by ranks of spectators. Not Onghwe’s Mongols—a snooty lot who didn’t like to mix with inferiors—but a rabble of Saracens, Slavs, Germans, and Franks. All of them had betrayed their races to curry favor with the rulers of the world—or, depending on how you looked at it, made necessary deals to prevent their people from being destroyed.

In spite of these obstructions, he could see the bulbous shape of a pavilion draped with heavy fabric, shielding not only the Khan from view, but also protecting the pale necks of the Khan’s concubines from the browning radiance of the sun. Satisfied that he knew where the Khan would be, he looked to his left, scanning the recently raked sand. The circle was large, maybe as much as twenty fa?mr from where he stood to the opposite gate, more than enough space for two men to fight.

Haakon’s brain quailed at the idea that this arena would host more than a pair of combatants. Surely they wouldn’t send more than one against him at a time, not even for the perverse pleasure of the dissolute Khan…

Focus. Taran, again. Fight as you were trained. The rest does not matter.

Haakon scanned the circle again. He was the only fighter in the arena. He glanced over his shoulder at the Mongols behind him. Why had they blocked him? Why was he alone? Were they going to loose animals on him? Why…

Center, he chided himself. Your mind will betray your hands. Stop thinking.

Haakon adjusted his grip on his Great Sword of War and decided he would walk cautiously to the center of the arena. He kept his eyes on the dark opening of the eastern portal—the place where his opponent would emerge—and let the rest of his body relax.

The spectators became a blur of color and motion. Their raucous noise became nothing more than a rhythmic pulse, like the sound of the waves against the rocky foundation of Tyrshammar’s citadel. His heart slowed too, seeking to be in concert with those waves, and his breathing followed.

Zzzu! Zzzu! Zzzu!

He listened more closely. The crowd was shouting a single word in unison. Blurred together, their cries washed across the arena in a buzzing sweep:

“Zug! Zug! Zug!”

The spectators roared now, a thrashing storm of sound. Haakon slowly realized they were calling out a name,