The Mongoliad: Book Three

theories from old drunks.

Haakon was still mulling over the conversation he had overheard between the black-bearded man and the quiet gray-haired Mongol when a pair of guards approached his cage. One of the two whacked on the bars with a spear shaft, getting his attention, and he slowly scooted back to the center of the cage. The other man busied himself with the lock on the door, and Haakon filed away his thoughts for later reflection.

Provided there was a chance to reflect later.

The Mongols had fed the prisoners earlier, a tradition the caged fighters all understood: a decent meal meant they were going to fight soon.

Once his cage was unlocked, Haakon crab-walked out. He stood upright, stretching for a few moments, and then allowed himself to be prodded in the direction of the feast-an orange glow over the peaks of the line of ger. Voices, flush with wine and airag, buzzed like angry bees lurking in the folds of the ger. He shook his arms out as he walked, trying to loosen his muscles and work out some of the knots he couldn’t quite rid himself of in the confines of the cage.

He tried not to think about the word he had heard the old warrior use. Skjalddis. Shield-Maidens.

The fires were bigger than before, enormous bonfires that scared away the darkening gloom of the evening, and the crowd was thicker, and more terrifying-the fires distorted the shadows on every face. The fighting ring was marked with a combination of rock and timber this time, and as he stepped over a freshly hewn trunk of an oak tree, he estimated that it was smaller too. The Khagan’s wheeled ger did not abut the fighting space as it had previously; a narrow platform had been hastily erected along the curve of the ring closest to the fires.

On the opposite side of the ring, guards had shepherded his opponent into position, and Haakon eyed the smaller man carefully. A Kitayan, not unlike his Mongolian captors, but darker of skin and leaner. He wasn’t much older than Haakon, and his face was dotted with scruff from a beard that steadfastly refused to grow in fully.

A weapon clattered on the ground next to Haakon. He felt the weapon’s impact more than he heard it, as the crowd erupted into a shouting mass as soon as the sword landed. Across the ring, the Kitayan darted for his own weapon, scooping it up and charging across the open circle. Haakon wasted a precious second looking around for his wooden sword.

The Kitayan presented a flurry of quick jabs, and Haakon-out of position from having been slow to get his weapon-could barely keep ahead of them. But he still ascertained quite a bit about his opponent’s style during the first series of rapid strikes: the Kitayan had a shorter reach, he wasn’t as strong as Haakon, and he thought he was quicker.

Haakon beat the next strike aside with much more strength than was necessary, forcing the Kitayan to redirect his own blade. As soon as he felt the other’s sword clear his blade, he flicked his wrist, snapping the wooden point toward his opponent’s face.

The Kitayan reacted badly, throwing his sword up in a frantic block. The wooden swords clacked together noisily, and for a second, the Kitayan held the block, trying to muscle Haakon’s blade. All he accomplished was holding his-and Haakon’s-blade steady for a moment.

Long enough for Haakon to reach out with his left hand and grab the tip of the Kitayan’s sword. Wrapping his fingers around the wooden point, he twisted his wrist sharply.

It was a training response-grab what is close to you-and attempting this move with sharp steel was decidedly dangerous. It was important to remember that wood was different from steel-a distinction that had caught Haakon off guard during his gladiatorial bout for the Khagan.

Haakon twisted and pulled, yanking the other man’s weapon out of his hands as the audience cheered and stomped their feet with approval. He tossed the Kitayan’s weapon aside, not caring where it landed, as he reversed his own weapon so as to bash his opponent in the face with the pommel. The Kitayan stumbled backward, his chin tucked into his neck as he tried to get away from Haakon’s wooden hilt.

He didn’t bring his hands up to block his face. Instead he fumbled with his shirt, and the motion was incongruous enough that Haakon sensed something was not quite right. He wasn’t that clumsy.

Firelight gleamed off polished metal as the Kitayan reversed direction, lunging toward Haakon. Something narrow and sharp was clenched in his fist, and Haakon dropped his right hand quickly, trying to block the Kitayan’s lightning attack. The wooden sword bounced off the Kitayan’s arm, spoiling his aim, and Haakon felt a finger of ice run up his chest.

The Kitayan danced away, his right arm tucked against his side, his fist held tight against his waist. Hiding whatever was clenched in his hand.

Haakon glanced down at his chest, and saw the ragged tear in his shirt. The icy line on his chest was burning now, and when he pressed a hand against the cut, it came away red.

The Kitayan had a knife. A very sharp knife.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The Noose Tightens

Crouched behind the wreckage of a weathered barrel, Hans watched the meeting between the Mongols and the Livonian Heermeister. He had been attempting to approach the Mongol camp stealthily, but too many of the obscured and secret routes used by the Rats had been demolished in the riotous hours following the Rose Knight’s death. He had been forced to skulk along the more well-traveled routes, and as a result, he had stumbled upon the standoff. His well-honed sense of self-preservation-the Rat sense that kept all the boys alive-warned him that he shouldn’t tarry, but as surely as the sun had risen, he couldn’t tear himself away. Especially after he heard the Livonian Heermeister offer to betray the Rose Knights.

He pressed his head against the barrel, and his fingers dug into the soft wood. He clenched his lips shut, trying to suppress the wordless cry quaking in his throat. Was there even time to warn them?

He flinched at the sound of the Mongol commander’s shout, and he recovered from this fright in time to see both of the Heermeister’s bodyguards topple from their saddles, pierced by Mongol arrows. He stared, transfixed as firmly as the Heermeister and the priest, as the Mongol group surged forward, surrounding the two remaining horsemen. There was some confusion for a moment as Mongol warriors seized the reins of the four Western horses and got them turned around, and then the entire war party galloped down the street.

Leaving the two dead Livonians.

One of them was still alive. The Livonian bodyguard lay on his side, facing Hans, and the man’s eyes rolled loosely in their sockets. His mouth kept opening and closing, like he was having trouble breathing, and blood dribbled out. His hand clawed at the ground, one of the fingers bent awkwardly-the lowest knuckle had been crushed by the hoof of a Mongol horse.

Hans didn’t know what he could do to ease the man’s suffering, but he couldn’t bear to watch him die. He edged out from behind his shelter, drawn toward the dying man by a primal sympathetic urge to provide what succor he could.

A hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him back. A tiny yip leaped out of his throat, and he lashed out with hands and feet in a frantic attempt to extricate himself from his captor’s grip. The man holding him grunted once as Hans’s elbow connected, and then Hans was wrapped in a tight embrace. “Hold still,” a voice hissed in his ear. Hans continued to struggle as he was bodily carried into an alley.

Fearing what would happen when he was out of sight of the dying Livonian-as well as any other passerby-he redoubled his efforts to escape from his captor’s strong arms. The man holding him let go, spinning him around, and