The Mongoliad: Book Two

None of us should be here, Cnan wanted to say, but she followed Vera through the trees and out toward the riverbank.

Looking to her left, upstream, she saw Percival on his horse with his back to her. Nearby, R?dwulf stalked out of the trees with his bow over his shoulder. Swiveling to look right, downstream, she saw the same thing roughly mirrored by Feronantus and Raphael. All three of the archers were making directly for the riverbank; they entered the stream without breaking stride and headed for the sandbar, a stone’s throw away. Meanwhile, Eleazar and Istvan had emerged from the woods behind Cnan. Istvan headed for the water, following a few strides behind Vera.

Eleazar stood his ground.

A long time passed before Finn emerged. Cnan had decided to get across the river. She heard his voice call out when she was halfway to the island: “Double flanking maneuver,” he said, “probably about one arban to either end.” He waved his hands alternately to the ground in front of Percival and of Feronantus. “Followed by some more up the middle.” He nodded to Eleazar.

“Get to the island,” Feronantus called, “and string your bow, hunter.”

While the others had been making their own preparations, Percival and Feronantus had been setting up trip ropes between the trees and the riverbank. At least, that was the only explanation Cnan could imagine for the way the arbans, charging at the same moment around the ends of the stand of trees, fell apart and went down in an avalanche of tumbling horseflesh and shouting men.

Percival and Feronantus charged at the same moment, riding opposite ways toward the stalled flankers. Eleazar stood his ground in the middle, waiting for anyone who might try to thrash through the woods.

Cnan froze up, caught between wanting to stare at Percival’s headlong ride into the midst of ten foes, and the need to avert her eyes from the same.

One of her feet came down wrong, and she fell on her arse in the middle of the stream. The water scarcely came up to her navel and was not all that cold, but it shocked her back into the here and now; she turned her back on the scene, planted both hands on the river bottom, and pushed herself up onto her feet, then without looking back, made her way onto the island and into concealment before turning around to see what was happening behind her.

The picture had changed quite a bit. She had expected to see Percival dead, all of the Mongols dead, or both. Instead, Percival was alive, and most of the Mongols were simply gone. Seeing the Frankish knight charging toward them in full armor, the unhorsed ones had apparently darted into the trees, while those lucky enough to stay mounted had wheeled around and retreated.

Percival was wise enough not to pursue them. Shield slung over his back to collect any arrows flying out of the trees, he galloped his mount across the stream toward the little island, leaving showers of silvery hoof splashes.

Feronantus, meanwhile, had found himself in more of a fight. Perhaps he simply wasn’t impressive enough to scare off the Mongols with a mere bluff charge, or perhaps the members of that arban had been more high-spirited. Whatever the cause, several of the attackers now lay dead, and Feronantus had abandoned his wounded horse to slog across the river on foot. A few arrows still whicked through the air around him. He hunched and raised his arm as if to bat at insects, then brought it down in a shooing sweep, stood tall, and scowled defiantly over his shoulder.

Eleazar had staged a fighting retreat from the woods and thereby drawn out a few Mongols who had immediately come under heavy attack from the five archers-Vera, R?dwulf, Raphael, Istvan, and now Finn-directly across the channel from him. The arrows had felled a few and driven the rest back into the woods, and Eleazar was now backing across the stream, his giant sword resting across his shoulder as if he had not a worry in the world. He had been hit by a few Mongol arrows, but they hung loosely in his maille, unable to penetrate deep enough to wound him.

Thus covered by the five archers, all of the members of the party made their way to the eastern shore of the little island, which was only a few paces distant, and boarded the little riverboat that waited for them there. During his visit to the market, Yasper had made arrangements for a string of ponies to also be waiting for them-on the far bank.

Percival had formed something of an attachment to the big pony he had just ridden through this engagement and managed to swim it across the short stretch of river that was too deep for wading.

And so the entire party reached the opposite side of the Yaik River-and the threshold of the steppe land of the Mongols proper-in good order and with Alchiq’s jaghun in such disarray as to be incapable of following them.

Earlier, Feronantus had said something to the effect that the jaghun must be “destroyed and, if necessary, killed,” which had made no sense to Cnan at the time. Now, though, she understood. She could only guess how many men under Alchiq’s command had been killed tonight. Probably many more were wounded than slain. But that was not important.

What was important was that they had been reduced to a demoralized remnant and that, when the sun rose and the bodies and the injuries were tallied, Alchiq, if he tried to drive the survivors east over the river in pursuit of the Franks, could be facing something like a mutiny.

Feronantus seemed to be of the same view. Of course, his first desire-once they had reached the east bank in good order and paid the boatman-was to put some distance between them and the Mongols, just in case Alchiq did manage to prod some of his surviving arbans over the river. So they rode until dawn, heading generally east, but also bending their course south.

Benjamin had explained to them that the Silk Road was not a single highway but a loose skein of routes taken at different times by different peoples, depending on all manner of contingencies. Most of those routes passed well to the south of them. Many converged on the garrison town of Saray-Juk, which, from here, was several days’ hard riding downriver. But Benjamin knew of one path that wandered north of the main bundle to cross the river near the market where Yasper had bought the firecrackers. It was their plan to find that road and to meet Benjamin there, at a certain remote, woebegone caravanserai on the steppe.

If the directions he had given them were to be credited, then they could expect to reach it by sundown of the second day.

The night had been long and exhausting, and almost all of them were suffering from minor wounds of one kind or another, and they were hungry. So at first light, they stopped and made a little camp on the east slope of a low hill from whose top it was possible to keep an eye back along the way they had just come.

Within moments, several of them were asleep. Raphael and Yasper made the rounds of those who had been injured, cleaning, stitching, and bandaging their wounds. Percival, who had not suffered so much as a scratch, went to the hilltop to take the first watch. Feronantus got a little fire going. Finn, who claimed he could smell water, draped himself with every waterskin and bottle they had and set out on foot-for he was sick of riding-toward the faint suggestion of a gully that was visible a few bowshots to the north of them.

A bit of time-perhaps the better part of an hour-slipped by as they drowsed, mended, or just sat quietly watching the sun rise.

Then the calm was broken by a cry from Vera. They did not understand the words, since she was speaking in her native tongue, but no one could mistake her tone. She had jumped to her feet and was gazing in alarm to the north. She turned her head toward the top of the hill, and Cnan followed her gaze to see Percival leaning back comfortably against the body of his horse, which had lain down to sleep. Percival, gazing fixedly at the sky, looked no more alert than the horse. His movements were those of a man just stirring awake-or coming out of a trance.

Soon enough, they were all awake and on their feet. Feronantus and Istvan, closest to the ponies, snatched up weapons and mounted.

A lone rider had come across the steppe and achieved the difficult feat of sneaking up on Finn.

From Percival’s vantage point, this interloper ought to have been visible from miles away, but Percival had fallen asleep-or what amounted to the same thing, fallen into one of his visions.

Finn, toiling down in the depths of an overgrown gully, filling his water bottles, had been unaware he was being stalked and had clambered up into the open to find himself confronted by the lone Mongol rider, helmeted and armored, with a bladed lance couched under his arm.