The Mongoliad: Book Two

his greatest weakness was committing too heavily to his initial strike, he had not been able to come up with a better tactic. Learn to wait, the old master of Tyrshammar had told him. Even though it may seem impossible, when your blood is hammering in your ears and your hands are eager to bury the sword point in your enemy’s skull, hold back. Watch. Wait!

For the following month, Feronantus designated Haakon as the defender in every practice. He could never initiate an attack; he could only respond. At first, Haakon had chafed at this role, thinking he was being punished, but gradually, he came to realize the defender was actually the one who controlled the exchange.

A week or two into their journey, the caravan paused at an enormous camp that stretched as far as Haakon could see. His field of vision was limited by other carts and cages, now circled and bunched, but through them, in every direction, he saw nothing but the rounded peaks of Mongolian tents-ger was the word they used-and a fluttering profusion of standards and tiny flags.

Haakon’s legs failed him as he realized this was the true Mongolian Horde that threatened Christendom. The force sprawling across the plain near Legnica had been a gnat compared to this gigantic assembly, and he shivered uncontrollably as he tried to imagine how many men the Mongol generals had at their disposal.

On his knees, he pressed his head against the rough floor of his cage, seeking sanctuary in a childhood prayer to the old gods of his forefathers.

Eventually, someone rapped against the bars of his cage with a baton. A thin man with a wispy strand of hair hanging stiffly from his chin stood beside the cage and jabbered in the Mongol tongue, smacking his baton repeatedly against the bars. Haakon looked up from his prayers and blearily focused on what the man was directing his attention to: a wooden bowl and, beside that, a strip of dried meat. The Mongol rapped the bars once more, indicating that he should eat.

Haakon scrambled over to the food, ignoring the Mongol’s cackling laugh. He was familiar with the meat; once a day, a piece much like it was thrown into his cage. It was salt or sweat cured and had the texture of untreated leather. Eating was a time-consuming process of flexing and softening the meat with his hands before forcibly ripping it up and putting small pieces in his mouth; then he worked the dried meat more with his teeth and what saliva he could muster. To eat it too quickly was to be stricken with stomach cramps later. The first time, the cramps had lasted a full day and he had not been able to move his bowels for another two days afterward.

Occasionally, he could catch a guard’s attention, and through pantomime at first-but more recently, using some of the Mongol words he had learned-he would ask for water. Once in a while, they would bring him a small amount in a crude cup, barely enough to lessen the drudgery of eating the meat.

The bowl, to his surprise, contained a watery rice gruel. Still a little warm, even. It was, Haakon decided, a reward from the Virgin for his patience. He meant to savor it, but his fingers scooped it quickly into his mouth.

For the next hour, until the man returned for the bowl, he sucked at its rim, making sure he got every last drop.

The following morning, the thin man arrived again with both meat and gruel. Haakon ignored the bowl at first, beginning the laborious project of softening the meat instead, and his stomach cramped. His body yearned for the watery rice paste, but the change in routine had made him wary. Why were they feeding him better? Had he reached the end of his journey?

There was more activity along the line of carts this morning, and he pressed himself against the bars to get a better view. Several groups of men were slowly moving down the line, assessing the cargo. They were dressed in much finer clothes, colorful silk jackets instead of the heavy and plain garments he was used to seeing.

Leading them was the largest man Haakon had ever seen.

Though tall and broad shouldered, the man’s greatest bulk lay in an enormous midsection, wider than a karvi, or a snekkja, even, longboats that could carry up to two dozen warriors. Haakon reckoned it would require the strength of two, maybe three men to lift this giant off the ground-and more to push him over.

Unlike the others, the giant wore armor of overlapping leather plates-the entire skin of at least one adult ox, Haakon reckoned. Around his neck and over the armor, he wore many necklaces-gold and silver-and a huge gold medallion glittered at the shallow hollow of his throat.

The gold had been worked into the snarling visage of a wolf.

One of the caravan guards, in awe of the giant and his retinue, nervously gibbered as the group paused near Haakon’s cage. Haakon listened to the guard’s stammering speech, catching a few words. The large stranger stared at Haakon all the while, grunting occasionally in response to the guard’s story, and Haakon realized the guard was telling the giant about the fight in the arena. With a wild cry, the guard launched into a clumsy impression of Haakon’s final assault on Zug with the demon’s pole-arm. The giant-who, Haakon guessed, was one of the Mongol generals, perhaps even one of the other Khans, a relative of the dissolute Khan who lorded over Hunern-glanced briefly at the guard as the nervous man finished his exhibition, before returning his piercing gaze to Haakon.

Haakon shrugged. “I fight,” he said, hoping that he had learned the word correctly from the caravan drivers and that he was not claiming to be a farm animal.

The giant laughed, and Haakon reasoned it made no difference if he had gotten the Mongol word right or not. His life was entirely in this Mongolian’s hands, and as long as the man appeared amused by his words, then whatever he had said was the best response. Haakon realized the general’s visit was probably the reason he had been given the gruel-if the prizes were to be inspected, it followed they should be somewhat healthy. He picked up the bowl of uneaten gruel and raised it in a gesture of thanks.

The general grunted in response and took several ponderous steps closer to the cart. His round face was oddly childlike, but his eyes were too quick and focused to be mistaken for a youngling’s innocent gaze. His retinue darted around behind him, like a pack of scavengers waiting for the larger predator to finish with its kill.

Not knowing what else to do, Haakon sat down and started to eat the gruel. The general watched, studying Haakon not as a curiosity but as a warrior would carefully watch the simple movements of his enemy in order to learn something of how he might carry himself in combat.

When the bowl was empty, the general pointed at himself with the forefinger of his right hand. “Soo-boo-tie,” he said. He said it again and then pointed to Haakon.

“Hawe-koon,” Haakon replied, touching his chest.

The Mongolian general nodded and tried Haakon’s name several times, sounding as if he were trying to speak around a stone in his mouth. Haakon decided to not undertake the same effort, fearing the general’s humor might dissolve should Haakon display a commensurate clumsiness with the Mongolian name. Instead, he saluted with the bowl again, and as it was empty, he offered it to the general.

He had wanted to show some deference to his captor, the sort of noble gesture that Feronantus would have expected of him. Even though he was a prisoner, he was still a member of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. The bowl was the only thing he had to offer. His fealty was not available.

Soo-boo-tie stared at the crude bowl for a moment and then plucked it from Haakon’s grasp. He spoke a few words to his retinue, and they scattered, rushing to continue their inspection of the caravan’s prizes. Soo-boo-tie lingered for a moment and then laughed once more as he turned to depart, waving the bowl at Haakon.

The caravan guard stared at Haakon, open mouthed, and when Haakon met his gaze and shrugged, the guard spooked-jerked back, dropped his jaw, and raised his hands in deference. Then he recovered, straightened, snapped his mouth shut, and ran bandy-legged after the general and the others, leaving Haakon to wonder what had just transpired.

The next morning, the caravan moved on, and no more gruel was offered. The caravan masters returned to throwing a single strip of dried meat into his cage, once a day. But the pieces were bigger and not quite as hard.

Haakon dreamed about the bowl. In the dream, he had not given it back, and the general had let him keep it. During the day, he hid it beneath his ragged shirt, tucking it against his side and holding it in place with his arm. On the nights when it rained, he pushed it out of his cage to catch the rainwater.

The shallow bowl of his dream was turned from a piece of knotty wood, and he could feel the tiny divots in its center where the woodworker had finished his work with a chisel. Was its maker still alive, or had he been killed when the Mongols had conquered whatever city he lived in? Haakon and the bowl had that much in common: they were spoils of war.