The Mongoliad: Book One

would have struck him had he remained still. He brought the butt end of his spear around in a quick smash to the man’s head. The knight pulled up short, yanking his head back, and only caught part of Kim’s butt against his helmet. His eyes widened as he realized where his face was, and he tried to pull back even farther as Kim drove the end of the spear into his nose.

Cartilage crunched and blood spewed out of the man’s broken nose. Kim stepped back with his left leg, putting some distance between them now, and he brought the tip of his spear up and around, smacking the other man’s spear down so that the point buried itself in the ground. The man tried to hang on to his weapon. His face was a mass of blood and snot, and his teeth were bared as if he could scare Kim off with his monstrous expression.

Kim—centered, coiled, calm—looked him in the eye and then snapped his hips forward, driving all his energy up his trunk, into his arms, and into the arc of the moving spear. The impact—high on the knight’s chest, above the red cross on his surcoat—lifted him off his feet.

He landed in a heap and made no move to rise. Kim tossed both spears toward the cluster of trees, far enough away that no one would think of them as readily accessible, and returned to the fallen priest.

Pius was senseless, more from nerves and shock than any obvious blow to the head, but he was still breathing. Kim didn’t waste any time trying to revive him; he had had enough of the priest’s scurrilous behavior. He rummaged through the man’s satchel and found what he was looking for. In fact, he found more than one.

Hans was at his elbow suddenly, pulling at his sleeve. “The guards,” the young man said, pointing. A handful of Mongolians, astride their short ponies, were coming in their direction from the bridge. “We need to go.”

Kim fumbled with the pair of small scrolls. Neither was sealed, though it looked like one had been at one time—there were still bits of wax stuck to the edge. They both seemed to start with the same letters. Kim Alcheon, Last of the Flower Knights, to Feronantus…he imagined the words read. The unsealed one appeared to have been written more hurriedly, though what it said he could not divine.

“There is no time,” Hans said, trying to get his attention.

Kim grabbed the young man’s shirt and thrust both scrolls at him. “The Shield-Brethren,” he said, holding Hans’s attention. Is there someone you could trust more? “Are they honorable?”

Hans squirmed in his grip, clearly more concerned about the approaching Mongols than a conversation about honor.

Kim held him tight. “Will they protect you?”

Hans stopped and met Kim’s gaze. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, they will.”

“Go, then,” Kim said, taking a quick glance at the approaching riders. “Take them these messages. One of them is true. One is not. Both may have value to them. They will understand.” They have to; my time has run out. He shoved Hans toward the trees. “Run, Hans. Run all the way.”

One last glance over his shoulder was all Hans needed as encouragement, and he grabbed the scrolls from Kim and darted away, running like a rabbit for the security of the slum’s maze.

Kim watched him go and then let out a long breath, letting all the tension flow from his body. He bent to pick up his staff, and as he stood, he pushed back his hood. The sun felt good against his face, and he waited until the leader of the Mongol group shouted at him before he turned around.

When they heard the signal—the distinct weeka weeka weeka of the black-tailed godwit—Andreas and his students stopped their sparring. After the last unannounced visitor, they were more sensitive to the appearance of strangers in the wood surrounding their Brethren chapter house. Weapons in hand, they moved toward the front of the ruined monastery—not aggressively, but with a clear unfriendly disposition.

A hooded figure emerged from the tree line, guiding a small figure. The sentry’s name was Eilif, a blond- haired phantom of the woods, and his captive was a scrawny lad, yet lithe and active—this boy wasn’t like the typical urchins who seemed to spring out of the ruins like weeds growing in an unplowed field. “Said he has a message for Feronantus,” Eilif said as the group of Shield-Brethren gathered around.

“Does he now?” Andreas said, appraising the boy. It was not lost on him that the boy seemed to know a little Latin; he tried to seem bored and without a care, but his eyes tracked them too well. He was listening intently to their words. “Was he alone?” he asked Eilif.

“Been following him since the river.”

Andreas nodded. Eilif took that as a dismissal and faded back into the trees, vanishing once again to his phantasmal role as the chapter house’s watchful eye.

“Boy,” Andreas said, catching the youth’s attention, “what message do you bring?”

“For the leader of the Red Rose,” the boy said, haltingly. He pointed to the standard flying over the ruined monastery.

“I’m their leader,” Andreas said. “You can give it to me.”

The boy screwed up his face and shook his head. “Feronantus,” he said, holding steady to his demand.

Andreas squatted and looked the boy squarely in the face, intrigued by the youth’s persistence. The youth didn’t know Feronantus wasn’t here, but he knew enough of the Shield-Brethren master to know that Andreas wasn’t the man he was looking for. “Who sent you?” he asked, wondering whom the boy had been talking to. Haakon? The Mongol camp continued to rebuff their inquiries about the fate of their missing Brother. It had been more than two weeks since the young fighter had gone through the Red Veil, and no one had been able to discover what had happened. The mood among the Shield-Brethren was turning more and more murderous, and Rutger had his hands full with their tempers in check.

“Flower Knight,” the boy said, and when that name failed to produce any response from Andreas, he performed an exaggerated pantomime—whirling his hands around.

Like he is swinging a staff, Andreas realized. The boy had no real training, and the technique was raw and unformed, but clearly he had been watching someone whose skill had made a deep impression on him. “The Flower Knight sent you?” he asked.

The boy stopped and nodded. “Feronantus.” Back to the beginning again.

“You can tell me or not,” he said with a tiny shake of his head. “But you will come no closer to our camp.”

The boy was shaken by this statement, and his tough mien threatened to break. He glanced at the woods behind him and then back at the standard again. When his gaze returned to Andreas’s face, his expression had softened, and some of the ferocity was gone from his eyes. “Protect…” He pointed at the standard and then made a circle with his fingers. He held it over his heart. “Protection?”

The men muttered amongst themselves. “By the Virgin,” one of them swore, and Andreas kept his expression neutral as he glanced at the man next to him. “Go fetch Rutger,” he said, using the Northmen tongue the boy did not know. “And some food,” he added, noticing how the boy’s ribs pressed against his ragged shirt.

“He said Kim—this Flower Knight—sent him?” Rutger continued to pore over both of the messages. They were both written by the same hand, and both were addressed and signed the same. The difference lay in what they actually said.

Andreas nodded. “He” said there was only supposed to be one message. Kim told him to deliver both. One would be true, the other false, and we would know which was which.”

Rutger looked up and glanced over to where the boy— Hans, as Andreas had managed to learn, finally—was still hungrily working on the wings and thighs of a grouse given to him. “Do you think he knows what the messages say?”

“I don’t think so. He said something about a fight. Near the bridge. Between Kim and a couple of bodyguards.” He indicated his chest. “He said they were Livonian Knights, but when I asked him how he knew, he said they wore a red cross and sword on their surcoats.”

“Shit,” Rutger said. “I thought they gave up the cross and sword after they merged with the Teutonic Order. Why are they wearing those colors?” He glanced at the message in his left hand—the note they had decided was the false one. “You think they wrote it?”

“I do,” Andreas said. “Why would they be escorting a messenger unless they wanted to make sure we got