The Mongoliad: Book Two

a broad smile on his bearded face. As the man on the ground rolled away, the Frank planted the tip of his weapon in the ground and raised one hand in a salute to the crowd.

They reacted in kind, yelling and screaming their adoration of his martial prowess. The Frank turned slightly and bowed to the flag standing in the triskelion beside the ring. Kim could not help but smile. It was the symbol of the Rose Knights, just as Zug had drawn for him in the dirt.

The Rose Knight’s opponent crawled from the ring to a thunder of booing and catcalls. Another man stepped forward, ducking under the ropes. This one was shorter, though no less strong than the previous combatant, judging by the thickness of his arms and legs. He was also a Westerner, darker in skin and hair than the Rose Knight, but his beard was trimmed in a similar style, and his clothing was equally unadorned. In one hand, he carried a thick shield, and in the other hand, a wooden cudgel. He spun his weapon a few times, and the crowd fell silent, leaning forward with intense fascination to listen to the sound the heavy club made as it whirled through the air.

The Frank nodded, acknowledging the man’s right to enter the ring. Holding his blade in a low, close guard, he eased into a ready stance. Kim watched intently, his mind already starting to catalog the Frank’s fighting style, comparing it to his own. Looking for ways it could be beaten. The Frank’s sword was shorter than the staff Kim preferred, but the way the Frank held his weapon suggested such proficiency that to think the Rose Knight would be disadvantaged in matters of reach would be foolish. There was patience in his stance as well, a placid calm not shared by his opponent.

They had not even crossed weapons, and already Kim knew who was going to win the fight. Nevertheless, how the battle played out would be useful knowledge.

The Frank thrust, the tip of the blade driving at his opponent. It was a surprising move, as his stance had seemed more suited for defense, but that was part of the illusion. He had wanted the club-wielder to think he was ceding the timing of the first blow. The other man turned the thrust aside on his shield, stepping forward as he did to bull-rush the Frank. The Frank responded, moving so fluidly that he seemed to have been waiting for that very response from the club wielder. Kim considered the possibility that the thrust, like the stance, was part of the lure to which the club wielder had fallen prey. The Frank’s weapon rotated in his hands, the tip arcing away, and the club wielder found himself rushing toward the hard pommel of the wooden sword.

The pommel slammed into his head, and as the stunned fighter attempted to recover, he stumbled and swung his cudgel and shield as one in the Frank’s direction. The Frank hadn’t stood still. As soon as his pommel strike had landed, he was stepping past the staggering fighter. In the confusion following the strike, his sword had somehow managed to slide past the man’s guard, parallel to his body. The Frank, behind his opponent now, pulled the wooden blade tight against the man’s neck, choking him. His opponent struggled and grunted, dropping both his weapons as he attempted to free himself, but he could neither reach the Frank nor get any leverage against the blade pulled tight against his throat since the Frank’s hip was also at his back, pushing it forward and putting him hopelessly off balance. It was an interesting technique, extremely useful in this situation where the Frank was using a wooden sword, but Kim wondered about its efficacy in combat with a sharp weapon.

By the time the man yielded, the crowd had exploded into noise again. Their voices echoed loudly amid the ruins of Hunern, and Kim knew this was the sound he had heard back at the compound. As the Frank slapped his opponent on the back, sending him staggering toward the rope, Kim lightly slipped under the bracing bar and dropped back to the ground.

His Mongolian escort crowded him, and the one in charge started to berate him for leaving their side. Kim cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I am ready to fight,” he said. “Make a path for me.”

This was his chance to make contact with the Rose Knights.

The man with the shield and club made five, and Andreas had yet to be touched by any of his opponents’ weapons. His arms and legs tingled a bit from the exertion, but mostly he felt warm and loose. The exultation of the crowd fed him as well, their noise a fire that roared through his veins. Virgin forgive him, but he was starting to enjoy himself.

During the first fight, he had been distracted, and his opponent might have landed a blow had he been a better fighter. Rutger had admonished him about the stolen Livonian horses, directing him to return them before he came to the field to offer the open challenge. The command had rankled him, even though he knew the aged quartermaster was right. The Shield-Brethren were not horse thieves, nor were they in open conflict with the Livonians (regardless of how Andreas felt about their machinations); to keep the horses was tantamount to starting a feud that would descend into open violence. The Livonians were still Christian soldiers, and the greater enemy was the Mongol force; for the time being, the Shield-Brethren fought to uphold the honor of all of Christendom.

Andreas, Styg, and Eilif had brought the horses back to Hunern, abandoning them at the first sight of a Livonian patrol (which had taken longer to find than they had anticipated). The Livonians had pursued them for a brief while but quickly gave up when they realized they had stolen back the same horses. Being able to return to their Heermeister with this news seemed to be victory enough that chasing a trio of Shield-Brethren through the ragged streets of Hunern lost its luster.

Which hadn’t quite been what Rutger had meant when he told Andreas to return the horses, but all in all, it seemed like a good solution.

However, Andreas had taken a liking to the Heermeister’s bay stallion, and returning it to a man who did not seem to appreciate it overmuch had put him in a foul mood. A mood that had been quickly driven away by martial exertion, the best remedy for the confusion and consternation that could plague a fighting man.

While the crowd madly cheered his latest conquest, Styg leaned over the ropes and offered him a waterskin. Andreas took it gratefully, the cool taste a merciful respite from the sweltering heat of his gambeson.

“How many more?” Styg asked, partially in jest, but there was enough concern in the young man’s face that his question demanded a serious answer.

“As many as it takes.” Andreas wiped the sweat from his forehead. “We are here to make contact, and I will fight until he shows.” No mention of what might happen should someone manage to best Andreas. Better to not give credence to such a thought.

“You’ve not said a word to any of them since this began,” Styg said. “How do you know you’ve not missed him?”

“Firstly, he is not from Christendom, as most of the previous fighters have been,” Andreas answered, reminding Styg of the obvious reason. “Secondly, our man single-handedly beat a pair of Livonians, each of them on horseback, with a stick.” Andreas took another drink from the skin. “I would hope the Livonians are more skilled than the men I have fought so far. Otherwise, I weep for the future of Christendom.” He grinned at Styg. “Did you not see the runner sprint off for the Mongol camp after I beat the second man? By now, they know we are here. They must be curious, and I am sure their fighters are as bored as we are. The mere suggestion of a decent fight will draw them out. They’ll come.”

Styg was about to reply when a commotion between two of the scaffolds caught his attention. People were scrambling out of the way; a few even slipped under the ropes, using the open space of the ring to more readily avoid the press of bodies being forced to part. “Someone comes,” the young Shield-Brother noted. “You may be right. I think you have caught their attention.”

They could see the source of the chaos in the crowd now. Several Mongol guards were forcing the crowd back with the butts and shafts of their spears, opening a way for a man to approach the arena. He was smaller than the previous opponents, with black hair and almond eyes set in an intent, hard face whose age was difficult for him to assess. He wore loose-fitting clothes that gave him an easy freedom of movement, and by the way he walked, Andreas could see the sort of grace in him that came only from an impressive amount of strength. His face, however, was mottled, with bruises and cuts that had not yet healed, lending him somewhat of a horrific appearance that belied this quiet strength.

A silence settled over the First Field as the newcomer reached the rope. He glanced up at the standard of the Shield-Brethren as it fluttered gently in the afternoon breeze, and he offered Andreas a flash of white teeth before placing his hands together at his chest and bowing.

“Ah, now we are getting somewhere,” Andreas murmured to Styg, passing back the skin. Andreas had eschewed a long-sword in favor of his waster-a wooden sword that squires and knights alike would use for practice