opportunity being dangled in front of him.
Andreas nodded as he tossed the rest of his portion of the overcooked meat into his mouth. There was something about the threat of conflict-of the looming possibility of a violent death-that enriched a man’s senses. Food, even when burned, became more flavorful. The sun was brighter, its light searing through the recalcitrant fog. The crisp morning air, inhaled through his nose, had a faint scent of distant rain.
As he took his leave of the threesome, Andreas couldn’t help but look on the trainees with new eyes, noting that the same bracing enthusiasm that filled him was present in them as well. Death instilled a vitality for living. Detractors of the Shield-Brethren were quick to call them bloodthirsty monsters who thrived on violence, but the opposite was true. It was a foreign mind-set for those who had never carried a sword or walked across a field of battle, and Andreas had long ago given up on trying to explain it to those who did not already understand. The horrors of war-of a life filled with violence-could only be balanced by cherishing each moment of that life with a resolute assuredness and a sharp awareness of what beauty it did have.
His well-used panoply awaited him back in his tiny chamber. His longsword was notched, his maille patched, and gambeson stained. Cleanliness was a part of the Shield-Brethren vows, and he did his best to maintain what he owned in that spirit, but over time, his harness and weapons became more and more permanently marked by the travails of his life.
He had spent many years wandering Christendom, and he could not recall the origin of all the scrapes and nicks in his maille. While the masters of Petraathen had been displeased with him, they had not stripped him of his privilege. He could have returned to Tyrshammar or gone to one of the other chapter houses of the Brethren, but he had opted to travel the known world instead. His journey had been lonely more often than not, but it had been one of his choosing. The decision to join his brothers at Legnica had, at first, been born out of curiosity, and in the first few weeks, he had felt-on more than one occasion-the gentle whisper of the wanderlust that had guided him for so many years. But that was akin to the temptation offered Christ during his exile in the wilderness. The promise of illicit freedom was a strong pull on a man who feared the true path he knew he had to walk.
The long alley behind the alehouse was drenched in sunlight, and the three men and the boy stood awkwardly close in the narrow space. Each but the child held a mug of ale, and the man who was not wearing the blue cloak of the Shield-Brethren was a short, stocky fellow going bald across the top of his head. His name was Ernust and he had a quick smile and a sharp laugh, which Andreas found refreshingly infectious.
Of course, the ale helped.
“I will not accept your money,” Ernust said, setting his mug down upon the wooden lid of a nearby cask. “There is little else to do in this city but brew ale and swap stories.” He grinned at Andreas and Styg. “The Livonian Brothers of the Sword are cheap bastards; they’ve taken advantage of more than a few of the poor people who come into my alehouse. Anyone who gives them-or any of the Khan’s thugs, for that matter-a good thumping will never want for drink in my establishment.”
“Your kindness is matched only by the quality of your drink, brewmaster,” Andreas said. “However, I do have two more men with me. They are keeping an eye on our horses.” He nodded toward the entrance of the alley. “Arvid and Sakse are their names, and while their cheeks are still as soft as rabbit’s fur, they are men enough to be thirsty. While I will accept your gracious hospitality for myself and Styg, I would not presume to assume that-”
Ernust scoffed, brushing aside Andreas’s concern with a wave of his burly hand. “Hans,” he said to the boy hovering nearby, “Fetch two more mugs for the knight’s companions.” The boy nodded and ducked through the heavy curtain on the back wall of the alehouse.
“I fear that we are an unfortunate influence on your young charge,” Andreas said when Hans was gone. “He puts himself in danger for a cause that is not his. My heart is heavy with the thought that I might bring pain and suffering to your family.” He raised his mug and examined its content. “Especially in light of your generosity.”
“The lad makes his own choices. Has since his mother died,” the brewmaster explained. “She was my sister, and she died a year before the Mongols came-thank God for that simple blessing-and the lad’s been living-” He chuckled. “Well, he was always welcome in my house, though he visited but once before running off again. Back to the streets he knew. A bit of a wild one, he is, and if you don’t mind my saying so, your attention has had an impact on him. But, I suppose you knights get that all the time, don’t you? The boys do love men in armor. And the swords-”
Andreas gave the man such a stern glance that the brewmaster’s voice died in his throat. The portly man dropped his eyes and fidgeted with his mug. “My apologies, Sir Knight. I meant no harm…”
“None was taken,” Andreas said. “Your ward has become much loved by me and mine, and his aid has strengthened our cause in a way that can never be fully repaid. Though, I wish to try.” He cleared his throat, considered what he wanted to say next, and then raised his mug to his lips. “When this unfortunate business is finished,” he continued after a long drink, “I would like to take Hans with us. I would like to make him my squire. I would protect him, and would pay for his education and training in the
A small noise caught their attention. The edge of the heavy curtain was raised, and Hans was staring at them with bright eyes. His mouth moved, trying to summon words, and after a few feeble attempts, he gave up and launched himself out of the doorway. He impacted Andreas in a tight hug that caught the big man off guard, but he smiled awkwardly and returned the youth’s affectionate embrace. He ruffled Hans’s hair and gently disengaged the boy’s arms. “You’ve done us a great service,” he said, somewhat gruffly. “What I offer is a hard life, and is in no way proper compensation for the risks you have undertaken on our behalf, but it is all that I have to offer you.”
“You… you offer me much,” Hans said shyly, wiping his tear-stained face. “I just tell the other boys where to go, and listen to their messages when they return. They’re the ones taking all the risks…” He looked at his uncle. “I worry about what they face when I send them out, and I am ashamed that I have not gone myself.”
Andreas looked at the boy, seeing him not for the first time with fresh eyes. “Hans, when I asked you to find a way for us to communicate, I knew the dangerous task to which I was assigning you. What you feel is what I have felt-what any commander of men has felt when he has given an order that has sent one of his companions into danger. You must always remember this feeling, and use it to temper your judgment and your compassion, lest you become careless with the lives you hold in your charge. That you can do what you have done-and that you feel what you do-tells me that my order would be honored to have a boy-nay, a
Hans raised his eyes, and the fear seemed to ease, at least a little. The guilt remained, but Andreas knew that that would never flee. A part of him felt the same, knowing what the boy would inevitably face, if he took this path. “I won’t let you down,” Hans said after a long moment. “Now, or in the future.” His eyes grew hard and resolute. “I promise.”
Ernust pressed a palm of one hand against an eye and squinted up at the sun. “I wish you’d not begged off on a single drink today, sir,” he said in a proud voice. “I’d like to give you an entire cask. ’Tis truly a moment to celebrate.”
Laying down his mug, Andreas put a hand on the brewer’s shoulder. “I wish I could,” he chuckled. “But we’ve less pleasant business to attend to.”
Andreas was not unfamiliar with the reputation garnered by champions-he had won more than a few competitions in his time-and he had been party to the affection showered upon a victorious host as it enters a newly liberated city. But none of those experiences truly prepared him for the celebrity bestowed by the dissolute Khan’s tournament. He and his three companions had managed to slip into the outskirts of Hunern without much notice, enabling him to detour to the unmarked alley where Hans’s uncle operated his brewery. However, as they left the alley and made their way toward the arena, they were beset by a sea of wide-eyed citizens. They were shouting his name, and their hands clutched at his legs, at the hem of his cloak, at his saddle and gear. It did not seem to matter to them that he had lost to the Flower Knight at First Field; all they seemed to remember were his other bouts, the ones he could barely recall the details of. Andreas shifted uneasily in his saddle; his horse, sensing his discomfort at the press of bodies, stamped and tossed its head nervously.
The immense blossom of the Circus rose like a fungus flower from the carcass of the rotting city. Unable to do much else in the madding crowd, he examined the tumbledown structure. Its timbers had all been sourced from nearby ruins-even as far away as Legnica proper-and it was a testament to the Mongol engineers that they were able to erect such an impressive structure from such a hodgepodge of materials. It was not a particularly attractive
