The Shield-Brethren took the bait. It was his only chance, and both men knew it. He was quick, but speed could not counter strategy when his enemy was ready for it. It was a well-delivered strike, and would have skewered Kristaps like a pig had it landed.
Kristaps stepped forward, bringing his sword to the center just in time to catch the spear tip upon the base of his blade, pushing it aside. The thrust was broken, but the Shield-Brethren’s momentum was not. Kristaps levered his greatsword forward the mere foot of distance necessary to plant its point squarely in his enemy’s chest. It was not enough to penetrate the maille and padded gambeson, but Kristaps watched with satisfaction as the man jerked violently at the blow and fought the urge to crumple. A rib might have cracked, muscles torn by the sudden contraction.
He raised his blade for another blow, preparing to bring the sword down in a bone-breaking strike that would shear through maille and shatter limbs, but the Shield-Brethren’s hand shot beneath his elbow, keeping his sword arm at bay. A desperate effort that would only prevent what came next for a few more seconds. The Shield- Brethren’s arm was extended now, and it was Kristaps who was inside the range of his weapons. His left hand slid from the pommel of the greatsword as he twisted his hips, hooked the shaft of the spear, and drove it behind the Shield-Brethren’s legs.
He hefted the shaft, and threw it back toward his foe. Goading him now.
The trap had been sprung, and Andreas had landed badly. When he struggled to his feet his breath was coming in difficult rasps, his head throbbing with pain. The stillness of his enemy was unnerving, absolute in its predatory, watchful confidence. Andreas had begun the fight in uncertainty, his resolve shaken. Now, feeling the agonizing fire in his chest, the only possible end to this confrontation was making itself clear.
The spear sailed toward him and he caught it reflexively. The motion of snapping his arm out to seize the shaft sent ripples of white-hot pain through his chest, shoulders, and back. He was losing the battle rush, and when the sword tip had struck him, something had broken. His legs were sluggish, and his maille and gambeson made it feel like he was carrying two or three full-grown men on his shoulders. The Livonian stood before him, his sword at the ready, watching with the contemptuous contemplation of a cat enjoying a game with a mouse before it has a meal. The sun was relentless in its attention, and what felt like rivers of sweat were coursing down his back and legs.
Behind the Livonian, the colorful flags atop the Khan’s box fluttered, calling to him.
All at once the fear was gone, and Andreas gasped at the sudden clarity that lay before him. The goal of this battle, whether the advantage had been his or not, had never been about survival. It would have been nice had the Virgin allowed him and his absent ally to walk away laughing with a grand tale to tell his brothers back in Petraathen when this was all done and past, but that had always been an indolent dream.
His hands tightened on the spear and he set his teeth against the pain. Andreas had heard stories from older brothers, speaking of the times when they had believed death upon them, how their senses became sharper. When fear fled, everything became serene and perfect. One last gift from the Virgin before she came to collect her brave warriors.
It was all he needed. One last gift.
He sprang toward the Livonian, his spear flickering before him in a last flurry of thrusts. The Livonian defended himself, almost lazily, as if he could not quite believe that his opponent thought this assault would bear fruit. His enemy sidestepped the first thrust toward his midsection, swatted the spear tip aside as it came again at his helmet, and then-becoming bored with the same sequence being forced upon him once again-rushed in with a killing blow. It was exactly what Andreas had expected. He let the spear whirl around in his hands as the Livonian came at him, and smashed the butt of the weapon into the flat of the greatsword’s blade, sending it veering off its course and to the side.
The butt of the spear was now between the Livonian’s weapon and his body. Andreas slammed his weight into his enemy’s flank, and used the shaft of the spear to hook his foe’s neck. He dropped his hips, twisted all his weight against the pain, and sent the Livonian through the air, his body crashing into the ground.
The crowds were roaring in his ears, expecting a finishing move. But Andreas ignored his opponent, continuing his mad dash across the sand. His legs cried out in pain; he ignored them. His chest was afire with the agony of each breath, but he would only need his lungs for a few moments longer.
The Khan’s box hung before him, a massive work of wood painted with red and gold and decorated with the stolen fineries of a thousand looted kingdoms. A pair of gleaming curtains shielded its occupants from the rays of the summer sun, stirring now in the wind. Andreas held one arm before him to steady his aim.
Limbs burning, chest screaming, Andreas set his weight, and threw his weapon, as hard and as far as he had ever done. As he watched it sail through the air, white-hot agony seared through his body-from his shoulder to his hip-and all feeling went out of his legs and his right arm. The world spun and he was no longer looking up at the Khan’s box. A shadow passed overhead, and all he could see was the red and wet sand of the arena. He tried to lift his head, tried to find the Khan’s box. Had his spear found its mark?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Where are we?” Yasper squinted up at the sky, as if assessing the location of the sun might be of some assistance in an otherwise futile effort at divining their location. In all directions, the steppe went on forever, a flatness marred only by the scraggly knobs of wormwood.
The landscape was-though Cnan didn’t want to belabor the point-not much different from what it had been for the previous phase of the moon. “We’re getting close,” she said, catching Raphael’s eye and hiding a smile.
“Close to what?” the Dutch alchemist wanted to know. He idly scratched his jaw, an unconscious tic most of the men had adopted since they had shaved their beards as part of Feronantus’s initiative to blend in more readily.
Other than Raphael and Istvan, the men were very Western in appearance, and given their need to move quickly and effortlessly across the broad steppe they needed to be less conspicuous. With much grumbling, they had shaved their heads and beards, and with the assistance of a salve concocted by the alchemist and daily exposure to the sun, their skin tones had been darkened as well.
“We’re close to that bush over there,” Cnan said, pointing.
“Ah,” Yasper said, throwing up his hands. “Now I know exactly where we are.” He dropped his arms until he could look down one arm at the bush (which looked like every other bush for miles in any direction) and along the other at the route they had been following. “Yes,” he said, wrinkling his nose and peering down his arm, “it is a good thing I have the latest inventions from Arabia to guide us.” He wiggled one of his thumbs. “We are, and this measurement is exceptionally accurate-”
“To within one thumb width, at least,” R?dwulf interjected.
“Better mine than yours,” Yasper chortled. “As I was saying, yes, we are exactly
