The Mongoliad: Book Two

“The sins of your order have not been forgotten,” the man said, “and you would do well to remember those are debts as yet unpaid.”

Burchard spat in the mud and began walking toward the horseman. The man shook the reins of the horse, and the animal took several mincing steps to one side. “Hold,” Dietrich called to his bodyguard, and when Burchard came to a stop, Dietrich continued. “I owe you nothing,” he sneered, “and it is you, having done violence to my men, who owes me a blood debt.”

The man laughed. “A blood debt? I have but given them a few knocks to remind them of what happens to sluggards who fall asleep while on duty. Surely you would discipline them similarly yourself, Heermeister.”

“I might,” Dietrich acknowledged, “but that decision is mine, and not yours.”

“Was it also your decision to send the priest with a false message?”

Dietrich stared hard at the rider, the fog now completely lifted from his eyes and thoughts, fingers lightly fondling the hilt of his sword.

The man returned his gaze, equally unflinching, daring him to reply. Fuming, Dietrich considered his response. This man was undoubtedly one of those arrogant Shield-Brethren bastards, and his question was nothing more than a blatant trap. He already knows the answer, Dietrich thought. If I agree with him, then I will be confessing to sowing discord. If I deny his words, then he will call me a liar in front of my men. The net result would be the same either way: the Shield-Brethren would have an excuse for enmity between the two orders.

This trap aggravated Dietrich more than the theft of his stallion. He raised his shoulders, took in a bored, long breath, and then dropped them, as if vexed by a wayward child. Then he struck a nonchalant, almost careless pose. How is that for an answer, you sanctimonious bastard? Despite this, however, his eyes darted about, searching for archers. He liked swift arrows no better than the next man.

The rider smiled, as if he had anticipated such a response. “A word of advice, then, Heermeister,” he called. “Pick your battles more wisely than did your predecessor.”

Dietrich clenched his sword’s pommel and pulled the blade a finger’s width from its scabbard. “You presumptuous whore’s son,” he spat.

The rider laughed. “Look to your men, Heermeister. I think we are done exchanging pleasantries.” His arm snapped forward, quick as a willow branch, and the arming sword flew through the air and embedded itself in the earth at Burchard’s feet.

The man then dug his heels into the barrel of his newly acquired mount and pulled the reins, bringing the horse about. “My thanks for the fine destriers,” he shouted as the stallion leaped into a gallop, mud and grime spattering in the horse’s wake.

“Heermeister-” Sigeberht had come up behind him. Dietrich whirled on his bodyguard with such violent motion that the tall Livonian took a step back.

“Let them go,” Dietrich snarled. “All of you will walk back to our compound, and that one”-he pointed at the man lying in the mud-“keeps that arrow in his arm until he arrives.” Perhaps the shock of the walk will kill him, he reflected bitterly. It would be the only excuse I’d need. As it was, this incident was only further humiliation.

He stalked toward The Frogs, rudely shoving past his bodyguard. “I will be here,” he said, “awaiting your return.”

“But,” Sigeberht began, “what of your safety?” He stood awkwardly in the street, hands hanging loosely at his sides.

“If the Shield-Brethren had wanted me dead,” Dietrich pointed out, “I question whether you would have been able to defend me. So why don’t you do something useful and fetch me a horse?”

He slammed the door behind him, cutting off the sight of his worthless men. Sinking into his private chair, he pressed his fingers against his forehead and massaged his hot skin.

Without a word, the tavern owner scuttled over and rooted around on the floor for Dietrich’s discarded tankard. Finding the vessel, he put it on the table, and with a trembling hand, he poured a full measure. Dietrich waited until the man had finished before he swung his arm and knocked the tankard flying. Ale spattered the nervous man, and his tongue flickered against his flaccid lips.

“Do you really expect me to drink from a dirty tankard?” Dietrich inquired, a deadly stillness in his voice. Shivering with fear, the tavern owner darted off to find a more suitable drinking vessel. Dietrich sank back in his chair, fingers on his forehead again.

Returning to the chapter house on horseback was both swifter and more exhilarating than a slow trudge through the woods, and Andreas caught up with the younger members of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae not far from the ruins of Koischwitz. This was what they were meant to do, and what the order excelled at: decisively besting better armed or armored men in combat, riding wild across open lands on the horses taken from their defeated enemies, and reveling in the intoxicating freedom that came from openly defying a foe who thought their order weak and complacent. Such a victory as they had accomplished would restore the morale of the others and would serve to remind them all what their roles in this world were. The assembled mass of their enemies could rise against them, and all it would take to beat them back was a strong arm and a strong will. We have been idle too long, Andreas thought, laughing into the wind. We have forgotten who we are.

Passing into the sanctuary of the woods, their horses slowed to a steady trot as the track became narrow. Andreas inhaled deeply, sucking in the scented air of the woods to calm his racing heart. Though the thrill of besting the Livonians was still bright in his blood, it was dangerous to let such enthusiasm guide him completely. He must retain some clarity as to what might follow from this victory. It was a minor skirmish in a much larger campaign, and his enemy-for all his clumsy senselessness-would adapt to his plans.

As his heart’s rapid drumbeat slowed, Andreas took in the richness of the forest. An endless number of drifting motes outlined beams of sunlight that cut between the trees like blessings from Heaven.

We are these specks of dust, he reflected, and it is the design of the Divine Light that brings us together. We cannot see the whole of the Light, but in our passing, we give it form.

It was an idea not unlike an old story he had once heard at Petraathen, one of the oft-told tales that spoke of the Shield-Brethren’s origins.

Andreas paused near the jagged trunk of an old tree, felled long ago by ill weather. Even from the height of his saddle, the place where the crowning branches had been snapped off rose well above his head, and the stump carved a gnomon’s shadow out of the sunlight flowing through the hole in the forest canopy above. Even dead, the old tree seemed eternal, and Andreas was a minute speck drifting in its sheltering shade.

Folk legends made the forest a fearful place, home to evil spirits, and only the truly capable or the desperate braved the woods. In daylight, staring up at the ragged trunk, Andreas was reminded of the wonder and the fear he’d not felt for years; the tree, though no longer growing, was still alive, covered in a stippled pattern of moss, its jutting, broken heartwood the host to all manner of small creatures. Insects buzzed in the shade, a low thrum beneath the celestial chorus of hidden birds. Andreas closed his eyes, and this world of faint voices opened up to him, a mystical realm that could only be heard when all the voices spoke at once.

Styg’s horse ambled past him, the young man’s leg brushing his as the horses jostled, and Andreas put aside his meditative calm. As he flicked the reins, his eyes fell on the roots of the jagged tree. They lay exposed, contorted like a mass of thick vines around a piece of aged granite too massive to be sundered by their persistent and perpetual grip. He saw the tree now as a pillar of stone, retained by loyal roots. In his thoughts, stone and tree coexisted.

As they rode on, he locked away the image in his heart.

They would soon be at the chapter house. Perhaps he would tell Rutger about the tree and the stone-maybe even speak of the hidden sanctuary that belonged to Hans and the other ragged boys of Hunern. Though, he suspected Rutger would be more intent on castigating him for the encounter with the Livonians and the horses.

But they were very nice horses.