The Mongoliad: Book Three

trapped in the center of a mass that moved slower than it liked, but Dietrich held it steady. For the time being, he was a prisoner. There was nowhere to go, and no reason to push the Mongols to ride faster.

His and Pius’s usefulness would come to an end soon enough.

The Mongols began to shift around him, and Dietrich found his horse being nudged toward the front of the formation. The Mongol party slipped past him like beads of water sliding off a broad leaf, and in short order, he was in front of the host. He felt like a game beast hunted for the sport of some bored nobleman in his own lands, and some of his apprehension about what was to come next drained away, leaving only the burning shame and humiliation of his position.

He was riding to his death. His plan had been flawed from the outset, the feeble machinations of a tiny mind that could only react in fear. What did he really know of the Shield-Brethren’s location? Of their defenses and their armament? He was going to ride right into the camp of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. God would decide what happened next. He had no other option. The longer he tarried, the more obvious it would be the Mongols that he had no idea how to deliver on what he had offered them.

When that happened, Tegusgal’s archers would fill him with arrows. The image of Burchard and Sigeberht dead in the street flashed unbidden across his thoughts, and an involuntary shudder shook his frame. He was almost as bad as Pius.

He bent his thoughts toward the Shield-Brethren instead of dwelling on the dead. They were using an abandoned monastery, and he tried to imagine how they would apportion themselves throughout the ruins. They would need some open ground where they could pasture and exercise their horses. Would they set up an archery range? They would have to forage for food, and they had enough mouths to feed that they would have to use some of the horses as pack animals. Horses would balk at continually moving through dense undergrowth. There would be paths in the forest, tracks made by the constant coming and going of the hunting teams. Dietrich started to pay closer attention to the gaps between the trees as the woods grew thicker around him and his Mongolian entourage.

He tried not to think about the bow that each man carried, about how quickly he had seen them nock and shoot an arrow. The small of his back itched. Even in armor, he felt naked.

His eye was drawn to a gap between a trio of mature oak trees. On one of the trees, he spotted a series of too-regular markings. At a distance, it would have been easy to miss the cuts, dismissing them as happenstance, but up close, he could see they were made by a knife blade. They were at the right height too for a man riding on a horse. The branches of the tree on the left side of the gap didn’t reach across the opening as they should either. There was one, curling low in the front, but behind it, there was a suspicious dearth.

Dietrich nudged his horse toward the gap, ducking beneath the leafy screen of the foremost branch. Once past, it was easy where someone had taken a blade to other branches, cutting them back from the path. Still leaning forward, he cast his eyes across the track, noticing the confusion of marks left by numerous horses coming and going.

Should he follow this path? It was a narrow track, wide enough for one horse only. If it led right to the Shield-Brethren chapter house, he didn’t want to be in the lead. That would only make his betrayal more evident. The Shield-Brethren would see him first-a knight of the West-and then the Mongols would come pouring out of the woods. They would all know he had led the enemy to them.

Not that any of them are going to survive.

He glanced over his shoulder. The Mongol party had come to a halt behind him, gathering around the tiny gap in the trees. Beneath his armor, goose bumps danced on the flesh of his chest. Expressionless faces, staring at him; eyes alight with murderous glee. Pius was near the back of the mob, his cheeks wet with tears. The priest’s lips moved, but Dietrich could not hear his words, though he could imagine the prayer the Priest was saying. Libera nos a malo…

Tegusgal barked a command at him, waving a hand at the trees. Several men on either side of the Mongol leader raised their bows. Arrows were nocked.

Dietrich raised a hand, indicating that he understood Tegusgal’s command. He didn’t need Pius to translate, and he briefly wondered if by acknowledging Tegusgal, he had just signaled the end of the priest’s usefulness. Without waiting to see, he tapped his horse lightly in the ribs and turned his attention to the narrow path into the woods.

Rutger brought him to a squalid camp behind the fire-blackened remnants of a wall. There had been four walls once, encompassing a house that had probably belonged to Hunern’s burgher. Tents had been strewn up along the surviving wall, creating a makeshift shelter that had once been home to a crew of brutish Franks, vicious men who had shown little compunction about killing those who they saw as intruders. Hans and the Rats had learned to stay well away from the Black Wall-as they had called the camp.

It was empty now, and Hans could only guess as to the demise of the Franks. Had they all been slain in the riots or had their bluster run away and they along with it?

Before Hans had a chance to ask Rutger about the previous inhabitants of the camp, other Rose Knights began to join them. They were dressed much like their quartermaster-in filthy rags and plain habits. Occasionally, though, Hans could catch sight of what lay beneath their clothes. A silvery glint of maille, the dull sheen of boiled leather, the dark knobs of hammered studs. Armor. As the men solemnly huddled around Rutger and Hans, the boy felt something akin to what he felt when he slept among the roots of the spindly tree the Rats claimed as their own. He was in the presence of something older than he could imagine, something that had the strength to endure all adversity.

Rutger put a firm hand on Hans’s shoulder. “The boy knows much about the layout of the Mongol camp.” The older man squeezed Hans’s shoulder. “Tell them.”

He began with some hesitation, still awed by the stern focus of the knights around him, but as he spoke he slipped into the patter he used with all of the boys who had come and gone into the Mongol camp on his behalf. He knew every detail of what lay behind the walls of the Mongol compound. He had spoken so often over the past few months that the minutiae of the camp were etched in his mind like carvings upon ancient stones. The Shield- Brethren listened intently, and when he finally ran out of breath, they asked a few questions, prompting him to recite certain details once again. How many guards were at the front gate? Where was the back gate? How many archers in the towers along the front? Where were the barracks? How quickly did the Mongols react to an alarm? What about the prisoners who the Khan used as fighters in the arena? Where were they held?

When he finished, he listened quietly as Rutger walked through their plan, adjusting it as necessary in light of Hans’s information. He and the Rats had planned excursions in the past, but they had been the raids of boys- unkempt plans for thievery and mischief. The Shield-Brethren spoke of more brutal matters, of the efficient ways to kill men, of the ways to break an enemy’s will to fight. Certain elements of the plan might have struck Hans as dishonest or unbecoming actions of a knight had he been more of an innocent, but given what he had seen nailed to the wall of the arena, he found the simplicity of their plan to his liking. It was both cunning and jarringly direct.

Could it work? He felt something like hope spark in his chest, but it was a tiny flame and a cruel wind could snuff it out quickly.

“Styg, what of our riders?” Rutger asked.

“They’ll be ready,” Styg answered. He had come with Andreas on that day when the Shield-Brethren had stolen the Livonian horses. He was tall, dark-haired, and-though young-he exuded a confidence that Hans wished he could emulate as readily. “Halvard and Yvor have collected enough from the Mongol watchers to clothe themselves.” He glanced shyly at Hans, as if he wanted to speak with the boy but felt awkwardly confined by the current situation.

“Very well,” Rutger said. “I will go to the cart. The rest of you go to your men and wait for the signal.”

“What of the prisoners?” Styg asked.

Hans had told them they were scattered about the compound. Tegusgal did not want them housed too close to one another. Such proximity could easily foment rebellion.

Rutger shook his head. “Our priority is the gate.”

“The boy knows where they are housed. His idea has merit.”

“It is too risky.”

Styg laughed, and Hans was surprised to see Rutger recoil from the younger man’s reaction. “What difference will two men make?” Styg asked. “If we are that desperate to hold the gate, then we have already lost. Let Eilif and