The Mongoliad: Book Three

But for the evening birds and the distant tolling of a bell in Hunern, the Shield-Brethren toiled in silence. Armor was being donned, swords sharpened, and those horses that were not yet readied were being saddled. Rutger felt the pain in his joints acutely, a grinding heat in the knuckles of his fingers. It had robbed him of his place in the order years ago, and the succeeding years had slowly buried his disappointment until he had come to accept the lesser role of quartermaster. But there was a need to hold a sword again.

Eventually, the Shield-Brethren gathered around a pyre erected from the remaining firewood. Rutger counted thirty somber faces. Full knight initiates, squires, and the untested like Styg and Eilif who had more than proven their worth in the past few weeks. Andreas had been right, Rutger realized as he looked at the assembled men. They were boys no more. He was surrounded by his brothers-the only family he had ever known-and their hearts and minds were as focused to the task ahead as their bodies were ready. There were no other men among whom he would rather stand when it came time to die.

The Mongols had taken what was left of Andreas’s corpse and nailed it to the walls of the arena. While he would have preferred to give Andreas a proper burial, dying in an effort to retrieve the body was an utterly foolish way to honor their fallen brother. What few personal items that remained would be enough, a symbolic gesture that would hearten the men and honor the spirit of their departed companion.

A torch was offered to him, and he managed to wrap his stiffening fingers around the piece of wood. Thirty pairs of eyes turned toward him, and he knew it was time.

Time to tell them why. Time to tell them the reason they all took the oath.

“We are all dying,” he said bluntly. Feronantus would have done a better job. His old friend was a much more gifted orator, but as the most senior brother present, the duty was his now.

What happened to all of them was his responsibility. He tightened his grip on the torch, afraid that his clumsy fingers would betray him and let go of the flaming brand before he was done speaking.

“High-born and low, peasant or king,” he continued, “our lives come to the same end. The Virgin claims our souls, and the earth and sky claim our flesh and blood. She whose honor we have sworn to defend measures our deeds in life, and those who are found worthy are taken to her hall where we spend eternity beneath the tree that is the root of all. Those of us who remain honor the memory of our worthy dead by hanging their pommels in the Great Hall of Petraathen.”

Rutger paused, a lump at the back of his throat, a wetness swelling behind his eyes. “Brother Andreas was worthy,” he said, his voice breaking. “Honest in word and deed; unflinching in his courage; first to act when the call came. When we floundered in our duty, he remembered. When we wished to hesitate, he struck. Andreas was everything that a knight of the Shield-Brethren must remember to be. When we forget who we are, when fear seizes us or when doubt assails our hearts, we need only think of our brother Andreas to find our strength again.”

Styg raised a longsword encased in a worn leather scabbard. Upon its pommel was a design similar in composition to the sigil of the order, but unique. Every brother owned a blade, given to him when he proved himself, that bore his own symbol. When he died, it was the sworn duty of his brothers to return the weapon to Petraathen. The blade would be reused, given to a new initiate, but the pommel would be struck free and permanently housed in the Great Hall. Andreas’s sword would have been lost with his body, but for the fact that he had not carried it with him into his final match. The blade had stayed here at the chapter house, and so they possessed it still.

Rutger carefully transferred the torch to his left hand. With his right, he drew Andreas’s sword from its scabbard. His hands felt like they were on fire, each knuckle a burning coal beneath the skin. “This blade is the finest steel our smith could forge, and when we go into battle, this sword is our virtue and our strength. But our brother did not take this sword into battle. Instead he took his faith and his love.” He raised the blade. “It is our tradition to break and reforge a blade once its wielder has fallen, but I submit to you that this sword should never be broken. It should hang, whole, in the Great Hall for all eternity as a reminder of our brother’s faith. It never faltered. He never faltered…” His voice wavered, threatening to lay bare his grief, and he tightened his grip around the hilt, the pain in his joints hardening his resolve. “We are the Knights of the Virgin Defender. We are the Shield of Saint Mary.”

He said the older name next, the Greek words hard in his mouth, and he saw confusion on the faces of some of the younger men. It is time they knew. “We have stood fast for many lifetimes,” he explained. “We live to see our brothers die in battle. We too will die violent deaths. But our vows remain. Our strength remains.” He raised the sword high and let his pain fill his voice. “Andreas,” he cried. “Alalazu!”

His brothers answered with the same. The still air was filled with the sound of swords being drawn and voices raised in salute. Alalazu! Alalazu! The battle cry of the Shield-Brethren shook the branches of the trees and rattled the old stones of the ruined church, and before the echo of the first salute had died away, a second followed. And then a third.

In the wake of their salute, they heard the sound of horses. The rhythmic rumble of hooves against the hard ground. The jingling sound of steel against steel.

“Mongols,” Styg spat.

“No,” Rutger countered. Too heavy. “Mongols don’t ride chargers.”

The sun had nearly set, a redness bleeding in the western sky, and the horsemen riding into the camp appeared to be swimming out of a sea of blood, the last light of the day glinting off helmets and shields and maille. White surcoats marked with red crosses and black ones marked in white hung on the riders as they filed into the clearing, their combined numbers several times that of Rutger and the Shield-Brethren about him.

Rutger lowered Andreas’s sword and stared at the host of Templars and Hospitallers. As he waited for some sign as to their presence, the lead Templar slid from his horse. His short hair and closely cropped beard were steel gray, and his face was a stone-etched mask. “I am Leuthere de Montfort, commander of the Templars at Hunern,” he said in a rough-edged voice turned hoarse from many years in the field. “Who commands here?”

Rutger stepped forward from among the circle of Shield-Brethren. “I am Rutger, knight initiate of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. My brothers look to me for guidance.” Having said the words, he felt their weight settle upon his shoulders. I will lead them, Andreas, he vowed. “Do you come for blood?” he asked plainly. The Livonians had made themselves enemies of the Shield- Brethren today, openly and with all the hatred that could be mustered. He was somewhat surprised that the other orders would feel the need to mete out justice.

One of the Hospitallers dismounted and strode forward to stand beside the Templar. “I am Emmeran, commander of the Knights of Saint John,” he said. Like Leuthere, he was armored for battle. His face was kinder, however, though at the moment it was etched with a solemn expression. “The Livonian atrocity committed upon your brother was ill done. You should know that their Heermeister, Dietrich von Gruningen, had come to both our orders previously, speaking ill of you and your brothers.”

Leuthere nodded in agreement with the Hospitaller. “I apologize for the bluntness of my question,” he said, his gaze still unreadable. “Your man, when he threw his spear at the Khan today… was he acting alone?”

A desperate hope seized Rutger as his mind warred with itself over whether or not to tell the truth. He was surrounded by a host of knights that was several times larger than his small company of Shield-Brethren. He exhaled slowly, and in his mind’s eye, all he saw was Andreas, smiling at him. Wouldn’t you rather choose the manner of your death?

Rutger opened his eyes and looked at the unlit pyre for their fallen brother. I hope you rest in the arms of the Virgin, he thought. With a grunt, he threw the torch atop the bundle of wood, and it clattered across the pyre, scattering wisps of flame. As the oil-soaked wood ignited with a huff, he turned back to the Templar and Hospitaller. “The plan was of his making,” he said, “but it was done with our knowledge and support. Our brother did not act alone.”

Emmeran and Leuthere exchanged a look, and then the Templar’s mouth cracked into a smile. It looked almost bizarre on that stony face. “Surely he did not think he could take on the entire Mongol host by himself?”

Rutger shook his head, trying not to let the small hope burning in his chest erupt into something larger. “No,” he said, his eyes flickering back and forth between the two men. “Such an action requires more men.”

The Hospitaller’s eyes glittered in the leaping firelight. “That is our thought as well,” he said. “Which is why we have come to join you.”