The Mongoliad: Book Two

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Flore,” she replied, her eyes downcast. “Flore di Mantua, Heermeister.”

Italian, he thought, taking another look at her shape. “That’s enough, Flore,” he said. “For now.” She gave him a short bow, and he watched her walk away, considering how he might spend the evening once he was done parading his men around Hunern.

As Flore stopped to refill the cup of a bearded man with a wide mouth, Dietrich let his gaze move on, reexamining the other patrons of The Frogs: a sad assortment of drunk mercenaries; a few priests, more interested in drinking than tending to their flock (though Dietrich couldn’t blame them); a trio of Italian merchants, loudly telling lies about the bulk of their cargo; several groups of vagabonds and ruffians who clutched their cheap mugs as if they were the most precious possessions they owned.

Worthless wretches. He lifted the tankard, inhaling the slightly acrid scent of the ale. He watched Flore laugh at something the bearded man said; she pushed hair back from her face and cocked her hip flirtatiously.

Dietrich grimaced as he drank. All you had to do was show some gratitude in return for our protection.

The incident at the bridge still galled him. Two of his knights had been summarily beaten by a single opponent. One said it was a Mongolian; the other man argued it had been someone else-one of the other Easterners who were part of the Khan’s menagerie of fighting men. Either way, the soldiers’ mission had been simple: escort the priest to the Shield-Brethren chapter house, look suitably menacing along the way to advertise their strength, and return. The soldiers had opted to not take their shields and to ride a few of the more swaybacked nags the order had at its disposal-decisions that, in retrospect, were ill-advised.

During his interrogation of the pair, one of them-Tomas, a Curonian-had tried to plead his case, but Dietrich hadn’t been interested. A swift backhand to the mouth had been enough to silence the man’s whining.

The very reason you were unhorsed and beaten by a lone man with a stick, Dietrich had explained very precisely, was because you failed to properly equip yourself.

Tomas had not been at Schaulen. Had he been, Dietrich was fairly certain he would have been killed in the enemy’s first sortie. Probably while looking for his shield.

And the priest-Father Pius-appeared to have grown a backbone in the interim. In contrast to his obsequiousness prior to the skirmish, he had become taciturn and closemouthed-as if the Livonian Grandmaster’s foul mood no longer frightened him. Pius remembered more of the incident than he let on, but the priest was only too quick to lay hands on his cross when faced with Dietrich’s ire. Qui custodit mandatum custodit animam suam, the priest had said, pointing to the same symbol on Dietrich’s surcoat. A man’s soul was only secure as long as he observed the commandments of the Lord.

Testis falsus non erit impunitus. There had been some satisfaction in watching the priest’s reaction when he had quoted the other half of that biblical proverb-he that speaks falsely imperils his soul-but the implied threat hadn’t loosened the man’s tongue.

Dietrich knew he should have taken the first note from the priest, and some of the fury directed at his defeated knights stemmed from his own failure. Still, the more he thought about the situation, a process assisted by several flagons of beer, the more he started to see how both notes falling into the hands of the Shield-Brethren might be less of a catastrophe than it seemed. The conflicting notes, should God deem it so, might even be an opportunity.

Discord and confusion among one’s enemies was always a primary goal of any successful strategy, and if the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae had managed to get their hands on both letters, it was very likely they suffered more confusion than insight from these missives. The Korean’s letter was innocent enough-nothing more than a request for a meeting-but the false letter claimed that the Mongols had killed their missing champion.

Dietrich knew the Shield-Brethren weren’t fools-unlike some of his men. They would see the second letter as the inflammatory lie that it was, but it would cast doubt on the first one, simply because it offered so little. Even if they wanted to ignore both, they could not afford to. After the First Crusade, they had retreated to their remote fortress-like a mortally wounded animal that crawls off to die. Cutting themselves off from the civilized world, they became more and more insular, fading into dusty obscurity. Even here, they set themselves apart from the rest of Christendom, hiding out in the ruined monastery north of Legnica. Like lepers.

The confusion of the letters would only serve to remind them of their self-imposed exile. They didn’t know what was going on in the camp around Hunern. They had no tactical advantage; their actions were going to be reactions, and while their martial art may be wound around ideals of humility and patience, they had fought in enough battles to know the army that was always on the defensive was rarely the victor.

Once, the slightest mention of the Shield-Brethren had been enough to cause a commander to reconsider his plan of attack. The sight of an armored troop of knights had sent more than one army fleeing. A single warrior would have been more than a match for a barbarous stick wielder; attacking two would have been a fool’s errand.

Dietrich chuckled as he regarded the few sips left in his tankard. That’s what they’ve become- diseased lepers, hiding out in the shadows, afraid to show their faces.

Mollified, he finished his beer and banged his tankard on the table. One more, he decided, and the woman too.

4

Prisons within Prisons

As he approached the Khagan’s private quarters, Gansukh considered how he was going to talk his way past the guards. He doubted Ogedei would see him if he simply walked up and asked to be presented to the Khagan. It was quite possible that Ogedei’s reaction might be less restrained than it had been at the dinner celebration, though the lingering bruises on the young man’s face spoke otherwise. It had been several days since he had presented the cup to Ogedei, and he had bided his time before attempting to seek the Khagan’s audience once more. He felt he was making progress in his efforts to curb Ogedei’s drinking, but he was still cautious. The Khagan was not unlike a wounded mountain lion.

The two guards outside the Khagan’s chambers looked even more nervous than he did. They stared past him, refusing to acknowledge his presence, and Gansukh paused, his conviction wavering.

“I…” He cleared his throat. Tell them what you want, he thought. Do not spin a story. “I need to see the Khagan.”

Neither guard replied. The one on the left rested his hand on the hilt of his scimitar, while the other blinked several times and licked his lips. Being ignored is better than being assaulted.

Their behavior was odd, though; he would have expected them to take joy in telling him that the Khagan had expressly commanded them to treat him like this, like a worm not worthy of notice. After a month at court, he knew well the delight the Imperial Guard took in reminding visitors of their lower station.

“I have an important-”

He was cut off by a loud wail from inside the room. At first, he thought he had imagined the sound because the guards did not react, but then he caught the nervous twitch of their eyes-toward the door, at him, and then back to the empty hallway.

“Sounds like someone in pain,” Gansukh said. “Shouldn’t we investigate?”

The lip-licker’s tongue darted several times, and he glanced at Gansukh, then intercepted a hard stare from his companion. “The Khagan is not to be disturbed,” he said gruffly, as if none of them