The Mongoliad: Book One

that he would initiate an attack against that pole sword. I am not, he thought. With a fluid motion, he responded with a proper bow, planting a leg well in front of him so that the weight of his coat of mail would not simply jerk him face-first into the ground.

When he heaved himself back up again, he noted the opponent looking at him with what he guessed was curiosity. And why not? While he wasn’t as gaudily dressed, Haakon’s armor was more complex than that of your average infantryman. He had left off several of the extra pieces that were meant to keep a knight alive in the chaotic melee of the battlefield.

The demon knows, Haakon realized. He’s seen armor like this before. His eye went naturally to the blade attached to the end of the pole; it had an edge on only one side, tapering from a thickened spine that doubtless gave it strength and stiffness. The blade’s curve suggested it would be most effective when accompanied by a drawing or pushing movement, just as a butcher uses when slicing meat. Such attacks worked best against unarmored targets, but the pole’s extra reach and heft made the blade dangerous to armored men as well.

Most of the techniques that Haakon knew were useless against such a weapon. Haakon’s greatsword was symmetrical and double-edged. Brother Rutger had recommended the tried-and-true method: a short sword in the right hand and a shield on the left arm. If it was good enough for the Romans and good enough for your Viking forefathers—

The demon let out a bloodcurdling shriek. Even though his mask muffled his voice, the cry was so sudden, so shocking, that Haakon felt like he had been struck by lightning. His muscles jumped, and instinctively he fell back a step as the demon lunged forward. The long blade of the glaive snapped past him, and with a flick of his wrists, the demon whirled the pole in a tight circle. The blade seemed to jump sideways, coming right for his face even though his passing step back had turned his body sideways.

Haakon threw up his sword, and he heard rather than felt the impact, a grating clang of steel against steel. The demon had struck him with the flat of the blade—a slap more than a slice—and before Haakon could react, the blade was gone.

A test, Haakon realized as the demon stepped carefully across the sand, whirling his pole in short, deadly circles. Each pass of the blade was in a different place—first high, then low, then high, then in the middle. Haakon wasn’t about to stand his ground against one of them. The slapping attack hadn’t been that focused. Had it been, it would have smashed through his frantic parry. These strikes, while not as fast as the demon’s initial attack, all carried the demon’s full strength. His sword wasn’t strong enough to bear the brunt of a hard swing.

Zugaikotsu no Yama waited. Not for the Western knight to ready himself after his perfunctory—and somewhat stiff—bow. Not because he was concerned about the man’s armor. Head, shoulders, chest, legs, feet— the Western knight was covered from the crown of his head to the soles of his boots in metal. Zug waited for the sound, the horrible, tearing noise that would spring from somewhere deep within his bag of flesh. That exhalation of grief and rage that never seemed to die.

The kiai.

The shout flew violently out of his mouth, rattling his mask. It signified an awakening within him, a sudden birthing of desire and anger. The shout brought life to his limbs, and in the wake of the cry came the muscle memory, the knowledge of what to do, how to fight, how to kill.

He thrust the skull-maker, and when the knight turned away from his attack, he almost laughed at his opponent’s naivete. His hands twitched, flicking the flat of his long blade toward the knight’s armored face.

It would be easy to kill him now, but it was too soon. He circled the frightened knight, letting the skull-maker play for a little while with a complex series of strikes and feints.

His opponent was cautious, staying out of his blade’s reach, and Zug found himself breathing a little quicker, a little harder.

Perhaps he was not as clumsy as he first appeared…

The demon’s blade arced past Haakon, another swing that came up short. He knows his range, so why is he pulling back? The next swing was low, but still short. Haakon only had to slide his left foot back a span to be out of range. He wants me to close the distance. The feints were meant to lull Haakon into thinking he no longer needed to flee the flashing blade.

Haakon slid his left foot forward as he raised his sword—point high, edge toward the incoming pole-arm. His stomach tightened, a warm ball of force coalescing in his body. He kept his eyes locked on the demon’s wild mask; he didn’t need to watch the blade coming. The sunlight shining off it would blind him anyway. He knew where it was going to be.

If his opponent was wielding a sword, he was in position for a good crossing of the blades, but against the glaive, such a position was a mistake. He couldn’t stop a full swing with that guard. If he was a full step closer, he wouldn’t even be able to deflect it; the blow would come right through his defense and bite deep into his head or neck.

But he wasn’t that close. As the blades struck each other, he relaxed his grip, yielding to the demon’s attack. The momentum imparted to his sword allowed him to twist his wrists and flick his blade forward toward the demon’s head.

Haakon’s sword point fell short of its target, and the demon, having read the measure correctly, did nothing to stop Haakon’s strike. He pulled his blade back and, with a twist of his body, brought it around again in another sweep.

The demon’s motion brought him incrementally closer to Haakon. As the pole-arm flashed toward him, Haakon took one more step, jerking his sword up so that the blade smacked against the palm of his left hand.

You never withdraw when you’ve broken the bind. Taran had drilled them relentlessly. A warrior doesn’t flee from a fight. He closes to finish it. Had Haakon been fighting one of his fellow Brethren, they would not have withdrawn their blade from the first contact. They would not have given him the opportunity to go to half sword.

He braced his sword in both hands and took the demon’s swing. The shock of the blow traveled down his arms, but Haakon let it go. The energy ran through his chest and legs until it left his body through his right heel.

He felt the difference—wood against metal. His blade against the shaft of the pole-arm. Inside his range.

Haakon brought the pommel of his sword down. Much like running his hand along a flat wall, he could feel the demon’s weapon plainly against his sword blade. Using the wooden shaft of the pole-arm as an axis, he performed a complicated finishing technique: levering his weapon so that the hilt could hook around his opponent’s hands, tangling the other’s weapon, and snapping the point of his sword forward with his left hand.

The demon pulled his head back, avoiding Haakon’s sword point, but all that accomplished was to give Haakon enough room to line up perfectly for a short thrust.

The demon fled from the unexpected thrust with an almost dainty back step and twirl. He had to let go of his pole with one hand in order to extricate himself from Haakon’s hilt, and as he retreated, the pole-arm dragged behind him, a long tail flapping against the dirt.

For a second, the demon’s back was turned to Haakon. Desperately, he shifted his hands to a two-handed grip and let loose with the sort of flailing strike one expected from a boy when he first picked up a sword. If it connected, he told himself, pride wouldn’t matter.

Remember the first rule: do not die.

The swing missed, and as Haakon recovered for another attack, the demon pivoted and snapped his pole-arm back up.

Sword and blade connected. They stared at one another: Haakon, with his sword half extended toward his opponent; the demon, crouching as if he were making ready to spring. The pole-arm was pointed up, its blade scraping against the crossguard of Haakon’s sword.

In the moment where they sized each other up, Haakon became aware of the shouts coming from the