The Mongoliad: Book One

Haakon had been trained to expect that his first attack would invariably not succeed, and so he took advantage of the rebuff of his weapon by sweeping it back and around again, coming up from his lower left. No feint this time. A hard strike, aiming for Zug’s right leg.

Zug, making a much smaller movement, was able to snap the tip of his sword downward and get it in the way of the strike. Again he could not hope to withstand the glaive’s momentum, but this time he had the ground to act as a brace. When their blades crashed together, the tip of the greatsword was driven into the sand, where it came to a dead stop. As did the glaive.

But the tip of the glaive was now pointed directly at Zug’s thigh. Haakon shoved it forward. Zug, sensing such a thrust, flexed his knee, allowing the blade to pass between his legs. The best Haakon could do was to give the weapon’s handle a sharp right push, levering over the longsword’s planted blade, to buckle Zug’s leg and send him toppling to the ground.

Which, to judge from the crowd’s reaction, was the most sensational thing that had ever happened in this arena.

A pair of drunk Slavs were jumping up and down in front of him, and in their excitement, they were not handling well the skin of fermented horse milk they were sharing. The third time they slopped arkhi over their shoulders, spattering Dietrich’s gambeson, he intercepted the skin as it passed between them, and when one of the two men tried to follow where his liquor had gone, Dietrich backhanded him in the face.

The second Slav, his face screwed up in confusion, gave a muffled cry as Burchard slammed a meaty fist into one of his kidneys and shoved him forward, where he slammed into the bodies below them. The crowd parted, swallowing the lurching and moaning drunk like a lake swallows a stone.

The first man—clutching his broken and bleeding nose—stared dumbly at the wall of bodies below him, trying to understand what had just happened. Dietrich raised his hand again, but his motion was stayed by his other bodyguard, Sigeberht.

“My lord,” the tall Frank said. “We are only three.”

Dietrich grunted, acknowledging his bodyguard’s words, and hurled the arkhi skin into the crowd after the man Burchard had forcibly moved. The bloody-faced man fled too, more to retrieve his liquor than to aid his companion.

We are only three. He had twenty-one more in their camp. Fully equipped Livonian Brothers of the Sword. There were more than a thousand Mongols scattered across the countryside around the ruins of Legnica, and God only knew the population of the sprawling tent city that had sprung up around the arena. Most of them would flee at the first sign of battle, but of those who remained, how many would side with him in any useful way?

This was nothing compared to the main Mongolian army that, having won at the battle of Mohi, was gradually spreading farther into Hungary.

How am I supposed to stop them?

It was easy for the Cardinals to tell him to put his trust in God. They were safe in Rome. Here, surrounded by a shrieking horde of bloodthirsty savages, he found a wide gulf between belief and action. Even though he often prayed to God for counsel and succor, Dietrich preferred to rely on the steel and skill of his men.

But they were too few for this present task. He needed an army.

It was all well and good that the current competitors were thrilling the audience with their shenanigans, but he knew this wouldn’t last. Even the most experienced court jester eventually ran out of means to entertain his increasingly jaded audience.

Dietrich fumed silently, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, as he watched the Shield-Brethren knight try to spear the Mongolian champion to the red sand with the pole-arm.

CHAPTER 17: THE MYSTERY OF THE ASSASSIN

As Munokhoi and the other riders approached, Gansukh got to his feet, the tip of the sword reminding his captive to remain still.

Munokhoi reached the pair first. He looked like a hungry wolf, relishing the moment before he sank his teeth in the throat of a mortally wounded deer. “Caught in the act,” he said, though he didn’t clarify what act he was referring to.

“She’s my prisoner,” Gansukh said.

The other riders formed a semicircle around Munokhoi, dust from their horses’ hooves rolling across Gansukh and the woman. By the white fur trim on their deel, they weren’t Night Guard, but Torguud, Day Guard. Members of Munokhoi’s jaghun.

Munokhoi leaned against his saddle. The torchlight made shadows scurry across his face. “She?” he said. His tongue touched his lips as if he were savoring the word, and Gansukh regretted having spoken. Munokhoi slipped out of his saddle and approached the pair. “She is a prisoner of the Imperial Guard, pup.”

Gansukh bristled at the derogatory word, more so because he knew Munokhoi said it to engender precisely the reaction he was having. He wasn’t much younger than the other man, but “pup” implied a vast difference between them. Gansukh swallowed the angry words in his throat, realizing they would do nothing but give Munokhoi the excuse he clearly wanted.

Munokhoi pulled a long blade from his belt and looked down at the captive. He toyed with the tip of the knife with an unconscious familiarity. “Step back, pup,” he said to Gansukh, his attention fully on the woman.

The woman was staring up at Gansukh, blinking heavily—whether from fear or from the dust that had settled on her, Gansukh couldn’t tell. Her mouth was open, and she was breathing rapidly. He knew what she was going to do as soon as he moved the point of the sword away from her back.

“Very well,” he said, and he lifted the sword.

She sprang up, like a deer bolting from brush, and sprinted away, trying to disappear in the darkness beyond the torchlight. One of the men on horseback dropped his torch as he scrambled for his bow, and sparks scattered on the ground, startling the horses. They moved, jostling each other, and the men started shouting at the one who had dropped his torch.

Munokhoi threw his knife, almost lazily, and from the darkness, Gansukh heard a squeal of pain and then the sound of a body falling. “Hai!” Munokhoi shouted at his men. “Control your horses.”

The riders brought their mounts under control, moving them away from the guttering torch on the ground, where a tiny grass fire was starting to spread. As the animals calmed down, Gansukh heard a guttural moaning from beyond the circle of torchlight.

Munokhoi glanced at him, his face suffused with the feral grin again.

“Now she has your knife,” Gansukh said, enjoying the change in Munokhoi’s expression that his words caused.

Munokhoi stalked over to the fallen torch. He stamped out the grass fire and scooped up the torch. “Careful, pup,” he snarled. “When I get it back, I might use it on you.” Munokhoi walked quickly in the direction he had thrown his knife, and after a moment, his torch swept down as if he were sweeping a stone floor clear of debris. The woman screamed, a long wail that collapsed into a sob.

Who is she? Gansukh hadn’t had a chance to consider the woman’s claim that she wasn’t an assassin. If what she said was true, then what had she been doing in the palace? Was she a thief? What had she stolen?

They needed answers, and the discovery of the woman and subsequent chase had been fraught with