The Mongoliad: Book Three

jacket. Almost.

R?dwulf knew that if he didn’t manage to kill the Khagan in the first few seconds, he probably wouldn’t get the opportunity. Their location was far enough from the bear’s cave that hitting a moving target-one that was doing its best to evade his arrows-was going to be very difficult. As soon as the hunting party dissolved into a confused mass of horses and men, he gave up trying for the Khagan. He focused on the slow-moving ones. And the horses. If they had to walk or run, it meant they stayed in range longer. He would have more time to kill them.

Except for the pair of archers who had climbed up to the bear’s cave. He had glimpsed white hair on one, and he knew, without a doubt, that it was Alchiq. He knew what they were going to do, and he told Istvan to keep an eye on them. Let them think they are getting close, he had said. And then we’ll deal with them.

They had gone upslope though, which presented a bit of a problem, but it wasn’t an insurmountable issue. He would have to break off shooting at the men and horses to deal with them.

He tracked one last target, a tall man with a flowing beard astride a beautiful black horse, and with a twinge of guilt, he put an arrow in the horse’s flank. He grinned as both horse and rider went down, the man’s leg pinned to the horse’s flank by his arrow.

Istvan cursed, and R?dwulf glanced over his shoulder. The Hungarian was pulling at his cloak, which appeared to be caught on something. Istvan stopped suddenly, raising his head and looking behind upslope. R?dwulf threw himself toward the rocks as another arrow whistled down from above. Istvan grunted as the arrow sliced through the meat of his arm.

R?dwulf turned, his hands positioning an arrow on his bow with unconscious alacrity. He drew the string of his longbow back, sighted, and when the Mongol he was aiming at fumbled his arrow, he loosed his own shaft with a sigh.

He was impressed at the speed with which the Mongol dropped out of sight.

Setting another arrow across his bow, he stepped to his right and kicked at the arrow pinning Istvan’s cloak to the ground. The arrow snapped off, and he stepped forward into a wide stance with his left foot. He was out from behind the rock, but he had a clear view of the hillside. If either of the two Mongols moved, he would put an arrow right through them.

He hoped it would be Alchiq.

The Mongols rose together, and for a second he hesitated, torn between targets. Letting a blasphemous curse slip, he loosed his arrow, aiming for the gray-haired bastard who had dogged them endlessly, and then he tried to move back to the protection of the rock.

He made it, but something slammed into his right hip and he leaned back against the stone, teeth clenched against the ribbon of fire running up his side.

A Mongol arrow jutted out of his hip, and when he moved, it moved too. It had pierced the flat bone, and would be hard to get out.

“Istvan,” he snarled, looking around for the Hungarian. The other man wasn’t there, and R?dwulf wasted a few precious seconds wondering where he had gone. Had he fled? Had he been hit as well and tumbled down the hillside?

It doesn’t matter, he told himself, returning his attention to the arrow in his hip. He had to get it out. It was going to interfere with his shooting. He gripped the shaft, and a fresh wave of pain slammed through his body. Break it off, he commanded his hands. There isn’t time to pull it out.

With a savage chop of his hand, he snapped the shaft of the arrow off, and the resulting pain brought tears to his eyes. He threw his head back against the rock, gasping for breath, straining against the vibrant colors that threatened to block his vision. The pain ebbed, and he could move his hip now without debilitating agony.

He reached for his bow, which had slipped to the ground next to the rocks. Bending was difficult, but he managed to hook his fingers around the horn end of the bow and tug it toward him. Just as he was maneuvering himself back upright, he heard the crunching noise of a boot against loose rock.

Alchiq stood above him, not ten paces away. His bow was drawn and the tip of the arrow was pointed at R? dwulf’s heart.

The tall Englishman didn’t flinch as the gray-haired Mongol released his arrow. It flew straight and true, and he heard it hit its target. So this is what it feels like… and then all sense and meaning passed.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

The Guan Do

The battle had left the field near the gate, and Rutger slowly made his way toward the distant peaks of the Khan’s pavilion. His heart was alternating between racing and standing still, and he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. The index finger of his left hand refused to bend, and he tore a long strip of cloth off the shirt of a dead Mongol. He couldn’t get his gauntlet off, not by himself, and it would probably have to be cut free of his hand. In the meantime, all he could do was immobilize the finger as much as possible to prevent the pain from being too unbearable. He wound the cloth tightly around his hand, clenching his teeth against bursts of pain that made his hand twitch.

A pair of chargers emerged from the smoke on his right, sweeping across the field. When the riders spotted Rutger, they changed their course, heading toward him. They wore the white and black, respectively, of the Templar and Hospitaller Orders, and as they reined their animals to a stop, Rutger recognized the two Masters. “The enemy has been broken,” Emmeran called out in way of greeting. No amount of dirt and blood could completely obscure the pleased expression on his florid face. He brought his horse close to Rutger and leaned over.

Rutger took the extended hand with his left, and Emmeran had the grace to offer a compassionate nod when he caught sight of the dirty cloth wrapped around Rutger’s right hand. There was a long bloody smear down the left side of Leuthere’s surcoat, and based on the tiny rip in the white cloth, Rutger surmised the granite-faced Templar had taken an arrow to the ribs.

“They’re in a panic,” Leuthere said, “nothing more than a rabble. There is no organization to them, and unhorsed…” He shrugged, as if the fight between an armored knight and a Mongol on foot was no contest worth mentioning.

“What of Onghwe, their Khan?” Rutger asked. “Is he dead?” He waved his bandaged hand in the direction he had been heading.

Emmeran’s face lost some of its enthusiasm. “Those of the enemy who still have spirit left have fallen back to protect their master, but they will not withstand our assault for long,” he said.

“But has anyone seen him?” Rutger pressed. “Has anyone confirmed that Onghwe is even in his pavilion? If he senses the battle goes against him, he will flee. Have we accounted for all of his commanders? If any of them still live, they could be providing a cover for the Khan’s escape.”

Emmeran and Leuthere exchanged a quick glance, and Rutger felt an icy hand clutch his chest. “Who?” he demanded.

Leuthere shook his head angrily and jerked his horse’s head around. The Templar master galloped off, leaving Emmeran to answer Rutger’s question.

“The commander of the party who went to your chapter house,” Emmeran explained. “We did not find his body among those at the bridge. We suspect he made it across the river.”

“Where is he?” Rutger shouted, even as he realized the Hospitaller did not know the answer. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If the Khan escaped and managed to flee back to the main Mongolian army at Mohi, he would return with a host many times larger than the force he had commanded at Hunern. The people of Hunern