The Mongoliad: Book One

bowstring back. He appeared unconcerned that he might have to hold that position for some time. Behind him, Eleazar was looping the reins of his horse around the knob of horn mounted on his saddle. He needed both hands to wield his two-handed monstrosity of a sword, she noted, and the only way to control his mount would be with his legs. Should the situation come to that…

She shivered, suddenly chilled, and she wondered if this sensation was what they all felt at the approach of violence. She wanted to vomit.

The tall knight stopped a few horse lengths from them. Tufts of sandy hair curled out from the edge of his coif, and his beard was streaked with red. He laughed, and Cnan caught sight of strong white teeth. “Feronantus,” the knight called, “you are far from your rock, old man.”

The familiarity with which the man spoke stunned all of them, save Feronantus, who remained unmoved by the man’s taunt. If anything, Cnan thought, he was even more like a stone than per usual.

“And you wear the colors of an order that fell ignobly, Kristaps,” Feronantus replied.

Kristaps spat. “Schaulen. We were betrayed.”

“The only betrayal you faced was that of your master leading you into that trap.”

“Heermeister Volquin was a great leader, Feronantus, and a better man than you —”

“His leadership is no use to anyone now that he is dead,” Feronantus said sadly. “What am I to make of your motley band? Is this all that remains—this sad bunch of deserters—or is there some mischief brewing that requires you to dress ill-informed fools as real knights?”

Several of the knights behind Kristaps drew their swords and shuffled back and forth, clearly eager for an order to engage the Shield-Brethren. Istvan’s horse snorted and began to fidget, mirroring the Hungarian’s own restlessness. Cnan heard the thin creak of R?dwulf’s bowstring.

“I wonder the same of you, Feronantus,” Kristaps replied, unswayed by the tension between the two groups. “Are you lost?” He raised his hand. “Petraathen lies that way, does it not?” He gestured somewhat aimlessly as if he could not be bothered to make certain of the correct direction. “Though perhaps it will be gone by the time you get back.” He showed his teeth. “A long time has passed while you have been hiding on the rock, old man. The world has passed your Shield-Brethren by.”

Feronantus replied with a humorless smile. “Is this all that is left for you now—wandering far from your home, like mad dogs, rooting for scraps left on the battlefield?”

One of Kristaps’s men took a step forward, but the tall knight stopped him with a hand upon the shoulder. “We are God’s servants, on a holy mission,” he answered.

“‘Holy mission?’” Yasper snapped, unable to hold his tongue. “Is that what you call terrorizing the innocent people of this beleaguered city?”

And Cnan inferred what Feronantus and the others had already discerned: the people in the shantytown had mistaken them for men like these and had been trying to appease them with tribute, to forestall some persistent threat of violence.

“There are no innocents before God, only the sinful and the righteous,” Kristaps replied with icy calm, as though explaining something as obvious as the rising and setting of the sun.

Feronantus forestalled any reply from Yasper with an upraised hand. “Calm yourself,” he said quietly. He stared at Kristaps and the other knights, and Cnan noticed how his gaze lingered upon the sigil marking their surcoats. It means something to him, she realized, more than a simple identifying mark like the red rose of the Shield-Brethren. There was something else here that troubled his mind.

“Cowardice suits you. As always.” Kristaps’s gaze roved across the company, his smile widening slightly as he looked at Cnan. She suppressed a shudder; it had been some time since a man had looked at her in that way.

It was strange, then, when Istvan drew his curved sword and urged his horse forward. She couldn’t believe he was reacting to the way Kristaps had looked at her—that was a reaction she would have expected from Percival, after all—but the sudden movement on the Hungarian’s part startled and confused her.

Istvan kept a tight grip on his horse’s reins and didn’t allow the animal to traverse the open ground between the two groups, but his stance was aggressively clear. In contrast to the prancing motion of his mount, the Hungarian was a carved statue—eyes locked on his enemy, knuckles white about his sword hilt.

Kristaps stood easily, his stance that of a man who thought the horseman an amusing diversion more than a credible threat.

“Istvan,” Feronantus said, “this is not the time.”

Istvan bared his teeth, a feral growl rising from his throat.

“You heard your master, dog,” Kristaps hissed. “He calls upon you to heel.”

Istvan’s eyes bulged in their sockets, and Cnan feared the tall knight had gone too far. The Hungarian was too quick to anger, overly fond of the comfort afforded by his rage. Her head filled with images of the unrestrained glee that had cloaked him when they had fought the Mongols at the farm.

She held her breath, fearing for the worst.

They were outnumbered, more than three to one. An engagement now would surely be their ruin…

CHAPTER 29: A BROTHER’S SACRIFICE

Gansukh sat on the edge of his sleeping platform, running his fingers over the tiny lacquered box. After a week of toying with the rectangular puzzle, he had been able to discern tiny seams, but the secret of how to manipulate them continued to elude him.

The right side of his face ached. Ogedei had split his cheek with the cup, and Gansukh knew that the wound looked and felt worse than it was; in a few days, it would heal to a scratch and most of the bruising would vanish. Until then, it was a mark to bear proudly, a persistent throbbing ache to be borne without complaint.

But that didn’t mean he wanted to dwell on it.

The box was slender, and it fit easily in his palm. The thief, when she had run to him that night out on the steppes, had concealed it inside his deel, a desperate sleight of hand. He didn’t understand why she had entrusted the box to him; though, given her choice was between him and Munokhoi, he could not fault her. But what was he supposed to do with it? He shook the box, listening to the rattle of the object inside. Was it the box itself or what was inside that was important?

When he hunted, the moment of purest feeling came in the instant before he released an arrow. Even though the gut string dug into his fingers and his arm quivered with the exertion of holding the pull, his whole body felt light, like a single fine strand of silk stretched between the arrowhead and the target. He seemed to float, vibrating in the air, and when the target twitched, he felt the motion run through him like a bolt of lightning. And then he let go—breath and fingers acting as one—and he knew, even before the arrow had left his bow, where it would strike.

The arrow flew true only when he knew himself, when he knew what must be done and was prepared to act upon that knowledge. Giving the cup to Ogedei and daring him to accept it—as both a gift and as acknowledgement of his madness for drink—had been a moment like that. If he had thought too much about it beforehand, he never would have done it, and now that it was done, there was no reason to not accept it as his fate. The destiny afforded him by the Blue Wolf.

I can discover the secrets of this box.

He held the box gently, his eyes half closed, breath slowing, fingers moving so carefully across its smooth surface. In his mind’s eye, he saw the long seam that ran along its length, and as he traced it slowly with his long finger, he imagined drawing his bow, sighting on his target. As he felt the end of the box, he paused, his finger resting lightly on the lacquered surface, his thumb gently caressing the underside. He listened for that moment, that minute quiver wherein his target would begin to suspect its death was approaching, and when he felt