The Mongoliad: Book Three

as Hans caught sight of the man’s face, he took aim and swung his fist as hard as he could.

A hand caught the blow, turned it aside. The face behind it was weathered and aged, with a look not unlike wind-scarred wood or stone, worn down by time. Its gray eyes were alight with both amusement and a fierce intensity that Hans dimly recognized.

“Ach, you are quick,” the old man said. When he saw Hans hesitate, he lifted his chin so that the young boy could look upon his face more fully. “Do you recognize me, boy?”

Hans, his fist still clenched, nodded. “At the chapter house of the Rose Knights.”

“That’s right. After you met Andreas, he sent for me. Do you remember my name? I am Rutger. The Rose Knights are-”

Rutger gasped as Hans, recognition coming to him like a bolt of lighting, impulsively rushed to embrace the older man. A bemused expression on his face, Rutger lowered his arms around the boy and held him close. “We’ve come to keep Andreas’s promise,” he said. He pressed his cheek against Hans’s head. “Our fallen brother will not be forgotten.”

The air inside the ger was stifling. Zug lay as still as possible, for every motion was a struggle against the torpid air. His body complained endlessly about the beating administered by the guard, and while none of his bones were broken, his frame was covered with bruises and dried blood. To be spared grievous injury suggested the Mongols were not yet done punishing him.

All he could do was lie still and wait. Wait for the end to come.

Yet, his mood was not as dark as the bruises. He had endured worse discomfort. He had lived with pain before. This suffering would not last.

The fly that had dragged him out of his stupor buzzed in his ear again, and he tried to remember how to make the sack of flesh work, how to move his bones. Zzzzzzzzuuuuuu-

It wasn’t a fly. It was a man’s voice.

Orange and white sparks-like crazed fireflies-danced across his eyelids as he dragged them open. There was some light-the day had not yet passed-but it was a weak glow through the gaps in the hide walls of the ger. Most of the shadows were gray shapes flitting at the edge of his vision. He stared at the iron bars of his cage for some time, waiting for the pain behind his eyes to pass.

This was the same cage he had been in after his fight in the arena. They had beaten him then too, but the worst part of that punishment had been the quivering shakes as the demons in his blood cried out for alcohol. Those demons were gone, pissed out some time ago, and all that remained was the old hollowness. The ragged ghost who had haunted his mind since he had left home. Dead man, it whispered in the bleak emptiness. Dead…

With a groan that he felt all the way down to his toes, he forced his shoulder to move, and he rolled onto his back. He let his head flop over until his cheek rested against the sticky sand scattered across the floor of the cage.

He was not alone in the cage. Huddled against the bars was another sack of flesh. Black hair, matted with blood. Face swollen and purple with bruises. Did he look that bad?

The other figure peered at him with one eye, the other hidden beneath a mass of puffy purple flesh. “Zzzzuuuuggg…” The voice issuing from the man’s throat was a ragged whisper that slowly crawled across the sandy floor of the cage.

“Kiiii-” Was that his voice? He didn’t recognize it, but the noise brought a smile to the other man’s face. A blood-stained smile.

“Still here,” Kim whispered. He coughed, or maybe he laughed. It was hard to tell. “They should have killed us.”

Zug swallowed, his throat raw and parched. “They made a mistake,” he managed.

In his head, the old ghost laughed.

May God have mercy on me for my lies, Dietrich prayed as he rode in the midst of the Mongol raiding party. All he had wanted was to save his men from the same ignoble defeat that had slain so many at Schaulen, and all he had accomplished so far was the ugly deaths of his bodyguards-two of the most loyal and trusty knights in his command. It was as if God was punishing him already for his hubris. How dare he think his order more worthy of salvation than any other knights of Christendom. Did they not worship the same God? Yet, he had offered to sacrifice them in order to save his own. Was such an act worthy of a Christian soldier?

These are the decisions a Grandmaster must make, he reminded himself, recalling his last visit to Rome and his audience with the Pope. Gregory IX had offered his ring for Dietrich to kiss, and the Heermeister had gotten down on one knee and kissed the old man’s hand. Sacrifices must be made, the Pope had said, offering Dietrich his other hand, and Dietrich had kissed the smaller gold ring as well. The one with the broken sigil. He had sworn fealty not only to the Church and the Pope, but to something older than both.

Beside Dietrich, Father Pius clung to his horse like a wet rag. The priest had not stopped whimpering since the Mongols had swept both of them into their column, and the way the priest was quivering in his saddle, Dietrich was surprised the coward hadn’t pissed himself.

“They will release us,” Pius squeaked, his voice thin and shrill. Dietrich wasn’t sure if the priest was asking him what was-in his mind-an entirely rhetorical and pointless question, or if the priest thought that endless repetition would make the words true. Twice now the priest had tried to engage the Mongols in some sort of discourse, but the warriors closest to them had only laughed at the priest’s timorous words. The second time, one of the warriors had whacked Pius about the head and shoulders with his bow, finding even more amusement in the noises the priest made with each blow. Eventually Pius realized the only way to make the man stop his abuse was to stop shrieking.

“They will kill us, as soon as they remember we’re not useful to them,” Dietrich growled. He didn’t say it to frighten the priest even more, but to focus the man’s attention. “More specifically, they will kill you as soon as they no longer need my words translated. Your survival depends on mine. Do you understand?”

The priest stared at Dietrich, eyes frozen with fear. Pius’s horse snorted and danced a few jerky steps as the priest lost control of his bladder.

The Shield-Brethren were housed in an old monastery north of the ruins of Koischwitz, and while Dietrich surmised it was possible to approach the chapter house through the woods between the destroyed hamlet and the old ruins, that approach would be noisy and difficult for a host of riders. By fielding a sizable war party, the Mongols had sacrificed stealth and speed for numbers. Dietrich did not know how many Shield-Brethren were at the chapter house-this was one of the many details they had kept hidden by virtue of their distance from Hunern-but he suspected Tegusgal had more than double the numbers of warriors. In which case, a direct approach made sense. Dietrich had made no suggestions as Tegusgal had led the party across the narrow bridge spanning the sluggish river that lay to the west of Hunern.

The bridge had been a narrow span occasioned by local herdsmen and the isolated merchant prior to the Mongols’ arrival, and as the influx began around the arena, some effort had been applied to shoring up the old pillars and replacing the more rotten planks. Once improved, the bridge became more used, which led to more wear and tear on the timbers, necessitating yet another pass at repairing it. The second time, Mongol engineers got involved; nearly overnight, the bridge doubled in width, and a small shack was erected on the Hunern side.

Onghwe Khan knew the value in controlling the roads. While the man had a reputation for being dissolute, he was also cannily aware of the fundamental ebb and flow of humanity. Dietrich suspected his rumored boredom was nothing more than an affectation, though he never wanted to find out one way or another.

Surrounded by mounted Mongol warriors, Dietrich and Pius galloped across the wide bridge, and the group swung north, putting the river on their right. Dietrich-with some annoyance-marveled at the speed and fluidity with which the host moved, each mount keeping pace with the others with neither thought nor order required. They slowed as they got out into the countryside, allowing themselves to be seen by any who still moved out in the open. Tegusgal was intentionally projecting power by way of visible force, Dietrich realized, to garner fear. It was not enough to destroy his enemies; it needed to be seen and left undisputed.

Dietrich’s charger, larger than the tallest of the Mongol horses by several hands, chewed on its bit at being