The Mongoliad: Book Three

thrusts at the Livonian’s body: head, feet, chest, head again, feet. Each strike was more rapid than the previous one. Forced to back away or check each attack with the strong of his blade, the Livonian gave ground. With each strike, Andreas shortened his grip upon the spear, bringing him ever closer to physical reach of his target. The Livonian continued to retreat, checking each thrust, his attention on the flickering point of Andreas’s spear.

Closer, closer. Then his chance came.

Andreas aimed a thrust at the Livonian’s groin. The Livonian’s blade snapped into a ward to drive it off, but now Andreas was close enough to grapple. The butt end of his spear shot across the Livonian’s arms, entrapping them together as Andreas hammered him hard in the neck. Hips beneath the other man, his tireless reminder to his students rang in his head as he leveraged his foe and sent the Livonian sprawling.

In the two heartbeats it took Andreas to steady himself enough to pursue, his opponent had already regained his feet and his sword. They stood facing one another again, and as he took the other man’s measure, Andreas felt a chill run through him.

He doesn’t even look winded.

Kristaps watched as the Shield-Brethren hesitated a mere fraction of a second at the sight of him standing ready. Behind his helm, Volquin’s Dragon smiled. You’re afraid, little knight. Afraid, and stupid to let me know it.

Once more, he raised his sword in salute. Amid the storm of shrieking faces that surrounded them, Kristaps was a focal point of channeled calm. The Shield-Brethren of Petraathen were the stuff of legends told from one end of Europe to the other. Kristaps knew all the stories, had believed them himself once upon a time, and he knew the lie they all imparted. No man, no matter how skilled, was ever anything more than bone, blood, and flesh, kept breathing only because another man hadn’t yet cut him open.

God willing, he would cut this one open. And all of his brothers as well. That was the debt owed. That was the promise he had made and that he intended to keep, as long as he could wield a weapon. As long as he too could breathe.

Kristaps kept his sword up, watching the other man, how he moved and taking note of what it might tell him of the way that he thought. From the stories Dietrich had told him the night before, Andreas was a bold fool, according to his Heermeister, an audacious soul who might be assumed to leap before he looked. Kristaps doubted this was true. The Shield-Brethren were exceptionally trained, to a fault. Their actions might appear like those of a careless fool, but they always knew the risks. They always planned ahead.

Andreas’s first assault had been a clear indicator, and in another time and place, Kristaps might have congratulated Andreas on the feint which had resulted in him being thrown. But it had been a mistake. He should have followed through and killed me, Kristaps thought as the spear tip came at him once more, lancing through the air. Because now I know the measure.

Kristaps stepped into the latest thrust, his blade sweeping the point aside. Abruptly Andreas made a rowing motion with his weapon and too late Kristaps saw what he was doing as the butt smashed into his chest. He gave a sharp breath and drew back. He brought his sword up and then down, aborting a second rotation of the spear.

A fighter learns how to endure a blow without giving ground, without wincing and crumpling around the pain. It is a basic survival skill, one mastered quickly and readily. In an open field, the advantage would have belonged to the Shield-Brethren, the limitless range of his potential movement allowing him to constantly keep Kristaps at bay. The arena hemmed both of them in, however, and a fighter who fled from every blow would eventually be pushed up against a wall.

He who was trapped first died.

They had separated again, following his disruption of Andreas’s attempts to beat him with the knobbed end of his spear. Andreas came at him once more, thrusting in rapid succession at his midsection, his head, and his foot. Smart plays, Kristaps thought as he kept his distance, but there was only so much he could do with that attack.

Kristaps swept his sword upward from a low guard and intercepted the next thrust. He locked the shaft with his weapon and then stepped in to tuck it behind his arm. Andreas knew what he was doing and stepped in too, throwing his head forward. Their helmets slammed together, and Kristaps tried to take the brunt of Andreas’s furious head butt on the ridge of his helmet.

His ears ringing, Kristaps shoved Andreas away. A smile spread across his face as he reset his guard and circled his opponent.

This was going to be more of a challenge than he thought.

Andreas had faced members of the Livonian order before, but this one was different. He was strong and skilled, and that was to be expected, but there was more to him than simple martial prowess. There was a disturbing familiarity in his movements, even in the way he forced separation and covered his retreat. He’s been trained by one of ours.

Andreas couldn’t rely on wearing his implacable foe down. The blows he had landed so far had been fierce, but they were the sort of trauma that would leave bruises and cause stiffness tomorrow. They weren’t going to change the fight today. Andreas could feel the Khan’s box behind him, its occupant at the heart of all his endeavors here. This Livonian was not a friend, that much was certain, and the only way he could accomplish the plan-and it was his alone, at this point-was through victory.

He’d bested his own brothers before; he could do the same here. End this, was his final thought on the matter. There is no more time.

Andreas launched himself forward with a powerful thrust aimed at the Livonian’s neck. His opponent stepped off line and to his left, his left hand darting from the pommel of his sword to midway up the blade, dashing in faster than Andreas could retreat. The spear was ultimately a weapon made to keep opponents at range, but when the enemy bypassed the point and stepped inside, then that advantage was utterly lost and the weapon could rapidly become a liability. As the Livonian stepped forward, the tip of his blade hooked Andreas’s hand against the shaft, and had it not been for the maille that protected his limbs, the back of his hand would have been cut straight to the bone.

He tried to withdraw, but the Livonian had already slipped behind him, and the pommel and grip of the greatsword were looped around his neck. He dropped his weight, but found the Livonian had beaten him to that trick first. The sky and the ground reversed their positions as he flew backward, landing painfully on the ground.

The Livonian was coming for him. The spear had landed within arm’s reach, and Andreas snatched it up, waving it around from where he lay on his back. The motions were forceful and wild, but they had the desired effect of forcing his opponent to back up enough to let him regain his feet.

The Livonian stared at him, his posture bespeaking absolute confidence. Abruptly, the man spread his arms wide, leaving his chest open to attack. He’s goading me, Andreas realized, and I have no choice.

With a cry, he launched himself forward, the spear lancing toward his enemy’s chest.

The Shield-Brethren was starting to panic. With a smile, Kristaps gave ground as his opponent lashed out with his spear, trying to buy enough time to regain his footing. Get up, Kristaps thought, as he retreated from the slashing spear tip. The Shield-Brethren had been expecting a different opponent; Kristaps doubted he would have brought the same weapon to the arena had he known whom he was fighting. Ordinarily, fighting against a spear was a severe disadvantage, but the First Sword of Fellin had been at Schaulen and other fields of battle and he knew the walls of the arena reduced his opponent’s advantage. There were far fewer ways to fight a man with a spear, and once desperation started to creep in, the options became even more limited. His opponent was starting to panic; his fear was plain in his motions as he struggled to regain his feet. A desperate man forgot his advantages quickly, and was more prone to carelessness at the slightest hint of an opportunity for a quick victory.

They stood apart now, panting. Kristaps watched the other man assess him. His own blood was up and his mind alert and sharp. The Shield-Brethren could not touch him.

With deliberate slowness, he spread his arms wide, leaving his body undefended. Come, his posture said, let me make it easy for you.